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JUN  1  9   1973 


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THE    NOVELS,    ROMANCES 
AND      31  E  31  O  I  R  S      O  E 

ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

P  U    0   /'  /;   A'  r  A    L      K   I)   I   T   I   0   N 


THE    NABOB 

VOLUME   ONE 


SOCIETY  OF  ENGUSH  AND  FJIENCH 
EriERA'l'URE    •  •     NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 

All  rights  reserved. 


2Entbersttg  Press: 

John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


PUBLISHER'S   NOTE  TO   FRENCH 
EDITION 

We  have  been  informed  that  at  the  time  of  the  publi- 
cation of  The  Nabob  in  serial  form,  the  government  of 
Tunis  was  offended  at  the '  introduction  therein  of  indi- 
viduals whom  the  author  dressed  in  names  and  costumes 
peculiar  to  that  country.  We  are  authorized  by  M. 
Alphonse  Daudet  to  declare  that  those  scenes  in  the 
book  which  relate  to  Tunis  are  entirely  imaginary,  and 
that  he  never  intended  to  introduce  any  of  the  function- 
aries of  that  state. 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET, 


Alphonse  Daudet  is  one  of  the  most  richly 
gifted  of  modern  French  novelists  and  one  of  the 
most  artistic ;  he  is  perhaps  the  most  delightful ; 
and  he  is  certainly  the  most  fortunate.  In  his  own 
country  earlier  than  any  of  his  contemporaries 
he  saw  his  stories  attain  to  the  very  wide  circula- 
tion that  brings  both  celebrity  and  wealth.  Beyond 
the  borders  of  his  own  language  he  swiftly  won  a 
popularity  both  with  the  broad  public  and  with 
the  professed  critics  of  literature,  second  only  to 
that  of  Victor  Hugo  and  still  surpassing  that  of 
Balzac,  who  is  only  of  late  beginning  to  receive 
from  us  the  attention  he  has  so  long  deserved. 

Daudet  has  had  the  rare  luck  of  pleasing  parti- 
sans of  almost  every  school ;  the  realists  have 
joyed  in  his  work  and  so  have  the  romanticists ; 
his  writings  have  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the 
frank  impressionists  and  also  at  the  hands  of  the 
severer  custodians  of  academic  standards.  Mr. 
Henry  James  has  declared  that  Daudet  is  "  at  the 
head  of  his  profession  "  and  has  called  him  "  an 
admirable  genius."     Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


viii  Alphonse  Daudet. 

thought  Daudet  "  incomparably  "  the  best  of  the 
present  French  novehsts  and  asserted  that  "  Kings 
in  Exile "  comes  "  very  near  to  being  a  master- 
piece." M.  Jules  Lemaitre  tells  us  that  Daudet 
"  trails  all  hearts  after  him,  —  because  he  has 
charm,  as  indefinable  in  a  work  of  art  as  in  a 
woman's  face."  M.  Ferdinand  Brunetiere,  who 
ha?  scant  relish  for  latter-day  methods  in  litera- 
ture, admits  ungrudgingly  that  "  there  are  certain 
corners  of  the  great  city  and  certain  aspects  of 
Parisian  manners,  there  are  some  physiognomies 
that  perhaps  no  one  has  been  able  to  render  so 
well  as  Daudet,  with  that  infinitely  subtle  and 
patient  art  which  succeeds  in  giving  even  to  inan- 
imate things  the  appearance  of  life." 


I. 

The  documents  are  abundant  for  an  analysis  of 
Daudet  such  as  Sainte-Beuve  would  have  under- 
taken with  avidity;  they  are  more  abundant  in- 
deed than  for  any  other  contemporary  French  man 
of  letters  even  in  these  days  of  unhesitating  self- 
revelation  ;  and  they  are  also  of  an  absolutely  im- 
pregnable authenticity.  M.  Ernest  Daudet  has 
written  a  whole  volume  to  tell  us  all  about  his 
brother's  boyhood  and  youth  and  early  manhood 
and  first  steps  in  literature.  M.  L6on  Daudet  has 
written  another  solid  tome  to  tell  us  all  about  his 
father's  literary  principles  and  family  life  and  later 


Alphofise  Daudet.  ix 

years  and  death.  Daudet  himself  put  forth  a 
pair  of  pleasant  books  of  personal  gossip  about 
himself,  narrating  his  relations  with  his  fellow 
authors  and  recording  the  circumstances  under 
which  he  came  to  compose  each  of  his  earlier 
stories.  Montaigne  —  whose  "  Essays  "  was  Dau- 
det's  bedside  book  and  who  may  be  accepted  not 
unfairly  as  an  authority  upon  egotism  —  assures 
us  that  "  there  is  no  description  so  difficult,  nor 
doubtless  of  so  great  utility,  as  that  of  one's  self" 
And  Daudet's  own  interest  in  himself  is  not  unlike 
Montaigne's,  —  it  is  open,  innocent  and  illumi- 
nating. 

Cuvier  may  have  been  able  to  reconstruct  an 
extinct  monster  from  the  inspection  of  a  single 
bone ;  but  it  is  a  harder  task  to  revive  the  figure 
of  a  man,  even  by  the  aid  of  these  family  testi- 
monies, this  self-analysis,  the  diligence  of  countless 
interviewers  of  all  nationalities,  and  indiscretion 
of  a  friend  like  Edmond  de  Goncourt  (who  seems 
to  have  acted  on  the  theory  that  it  is  the  whole 
duty  of  man  to  take  notes  of  the  talk  of  his  fellows 
for  prompt  publication).  Yet  we  have  ample 
material  to  enable  us  to  trace  Daudet's  heredity,  and 
to  estimate  the  influence  of  his  environment  in  the 
days  of  his  youth,  and  to  allow  for  the  effect  which 
certain  of  his  own  physical  peculiarities  must  have 
had  upon  his  exercise  of  his  art.  His  near-sighted- 
ness, for  example,  —  would  not  Sainte-Beuve  have 
seized  upon  this  as  significant?  Would  he  not  have 
seen  in  this  a  possible  source  of  Daudet's  mastery 


X  Alpho7tse  Daudet. 

of  description?  And  the  spasms  of  pain  borne 
bravely  and  uncomplainingly,  the  long  agony  of 
his  later  years,  what  mark  has  this  left  on  his 
work,  how  far  is  it  responsible  for  a  modification 
of  his  attitude,  —  for  the  change  from  the  careless 
gaiety  of  "  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  "  to  the  sombre 
satire  of  "  Port-Tarascon  "  ?  What  caused  the  joy- 
ous story-teller  of  the  "  Letters  from  my  Mill " 
to  develop  into  the  bitter  iconoclast  of  the 
"Immortal." 

These  questions  are  insistent ;  and  yet,  after  all, 
what  matters  the  answer  to  any  of  them?  The 
fact  remains  that  Daudet  had  his  share  of  that  in- 
communicable quality  which  we  are  agreed  to 
call  genius.  This  once  admitted,  we  may  do  our 
best  to  weigh  it  and  to  resolve  it  into  its  elements, 
it  is  at  bottom  the  vital  spark  that  resists  all 
examination,  however  scientific  we  may  seek  to 
be.  We  can  test  for  this  and  for  that,  but  in  the 
final  analysis  genius  is  inexplicable.  It  is  what  it 
is,  because  it  is.  It  might  have  been  different, 
no  doubt,  but  it  is  not.  It  is  its  own  excuse 
for  being ;  and,  for  all  that  we  can  say  to  the  con- 
trary, it  is  its  own  cause,  sufficient  unto  itself. 
Even  if  we  had  Sainte-Beuve's  scalpel,  we  could 
not  surprise  the  secret. 

Yet  an  inquiry  into  the  successive  stages  of 
Daudet's  career,  a  consideration  of  his  ancestry,  of 
his  parentage,  of  his  birth,  of  the  circumstances 
of  his  boyhood,  of  his  youthful  adventures,  —  these 
things  are  interesting  in  themselves  and  they  are 


Alp  house  Dattdet.  xi 

not  without  instruction.  They  reveal  to  us  the 
reasons  for  the  transformation  that  goes  so  far  to 
explain  Daudet's  peculiar  position, — the  trans- 
formation of  a  young  Provengal  poet  into  a  bril- 
liant Parisian  veritist.  Daudet  was  a  Provencal 
who  became  a  Parisian,  —  and  in  this  translation 
we  may  find  the  key  to  his  character  as  a  writer  of 
fiction. 

He  was  from  Provence  as  Maupassant  was  from 
Normandy;  and  Daudet  had  the  Southern  expan- 
siveness  and  abundance,  just  as  Maupassant  had 
the  Northern  reserve  and  caution.  If  an  author  is 
ever  to  bring  forth  fruit  after  his  kind  he  must 
have  roots  in  the  soil  of  his  nativity.  Daudet  was 
no  orchid,  beautiful  and  scentless ;  his  writings  have 
always  the  full  flavor  of  the  southern  soil.  He  was 
able  to  set  Tartarin  before  us  so  sympathetically 
and  to  make  Numa  Roumestan  so  convincing  be- 
cause he  recognized  in  himself  the  possibility  of  a 
like  exuberance.  He  could  never  take  the  rigor- 
ously impassive  attitude  which  Flaubert  taught 
Maupassant  to  assume.  Daudet  not  only  feels  for 
his  characters,  but  he  is  quite  willing  that  we  should 
be  aware  of  his  compassion. 

He  is  not  only  incapable  of  the  girding  enmity 
which  Taine  detected  and  detested  in  Thackeray's 
treatment  of  Becky  Sharp,  but  he  is  also  devoid  of 
the  callous  detachment  with  which  Flaubert  dis- 
sected Emma  Bovary  under  the  microscope. 
Daudet  is  never  flagrantly  hostile  toward  one  of 
his  creatures ;  and,  however  contemptible  or  despi- 


xii  Alpho7ise  Daudet. 

cable  the  characters  he  has  called  into  being,  he  is 
scrupulously  fair  to  them.  Sidonie  and  Fdlicia 
Ruys  severally  throw  themselves  away,  but  Daudet 
is  never  intolerant.  He  is  inexorable,  but  he  is  not 
insulting.  I  cannot  but  think  that  it  is  Provence 
whence  Daudet  derived  the  precious  birthright  of 
sympathy,  and  that  it  is  Provence  again  which  be- 
stowed on  him  the  rarer  gift  of  sentiment.  It  is  by 
his  possession  of  sympathy  and  of  sentiment  that  he 
has  escaped  the  aridity  which  suffocates  us  in  the 
works  of  so  many  other  Parisian  novelists.  The 
South  endowed  him  with  warmth  and  heartiness 
and  vivacity;  and  what  he  learnt  from  Paris  was 
the  power  of  self-restraint  and  the  duty  of  finish. 

He  was  born  in  Provence  and  he  died  in  Paris; 
he  began  as  a  poet  and  he  ended  as  a  veritist;  and 
in  each  case  there  was  logical  evolution  and  not 
contradiction.  The  Parisian  did  not  cease  to  be  a 
Provengal;  and  the  novelist  was  a  lyrist  still. 
Poet  though  he  was,  he  had  an  intense  liking  for 
the  actual,  the  visible,  the  tangible.  He  so  hun- 
gered after  truth  that  he  was  ready  sometimes  to 
stay  his  stomach  with  facts  in  its  stead,  —  mere 
fact  being  but  the  outward  husk,  whereas  truth  is 
the  rich  kernel  concealed  within.  His  son  tells  us 
that  Daudet  might  have  taken  as  a  motto  the  title 
of  Goethe's  autobiography,  "  Dichtung  und  Wahr- 
heit,"  —  Poetry  and  Truth.  And  this  it  is  that  has 
set  Daudet  apart  and  that  has  caused  his  vogue  with 
readers  of  all  sorts  and  conditions,  —  this  unique 
combination   of  imagination    and    verity.       "His 


Alp  house  Daudet.  xiii 

originality,"  M.  Jules  Lemaitre  has  acutely  re- 
marked, "  is  closely  to  unite  observation  and  fan- 
tasy, to  extract  from  the  truth  all  that  it  contains 
of  the  improbable  and  the  surprising,  to  satisfy  at 
the  same  time  the  readers  of  M.  Cherbuliez  and  the 
readers  of  M.  Zola,  to  write  novels  which  are  at  the 
same  time  realistic  and  romantic,  and  which  seem 
romantic  only  because  they  are  very  sincerely  and 
very  profoundly  realistic." 


II. 

Alphonse  Daudet  was  born  in  1840,  and  it 
was  at  Nlmes  that  he  first  began  to  observe 
mankind;  and  he  has  described  his  birthplace 
and  his  boyhood  in  "  Little  What's-his-name," 
a  novel  even  richer  in  autobiographical  reve- 
lation than  is  "  David  Copperfield."  His  father  was 
a  manufacturer  whose  business  was  not  prosper- 
ous and  who  was  forced  at  last  to  remove  with 
the  whole  family  to  Lyons  in  the  vain  hope  of  do- 
ing better  in  the  larger  town.  After  reading  the 
account  of  this  parent's  peculiarities  in  M.  Ernest 
Daudet's  book,  we  are  not  surprised  that  the  affairs 
of  the  family  did  not  improve,  but  went  from  bad 
to  worse.  Alphonse  Daudet  suffered  bitterly  in 
these  years  of  desperate  struggle,  but  he  gained  an 
understanding  of  the  conditions  of  mercantile  life, 
to  be  serviceable  later  in  the  composition  of 
"Fromont   and   Risler." 


xiv  Alp  house  Daudet. 

When  he  was  sixteen  he  secured  a  place  d^s  pion 
in  a  boarding  school  in  the  Cevennes,  —  dipion  is  a 
poor  devil  of  a  youth  hired  to  keep  watch  on  the 
boys.  How  painful  this  position  was  to  the  young 
poet  can  be  read  indirectly  in  "Little  What's-his- 
name,"  but  more  explicitly  in  the  history  of  that 
story,  printed  now  in  "  Thirty  Years  of  Paris." 
From  this  remote  prison  he  was  rescued  by  his 
elder  brother,  Ernest,  who  was  trying  to  make  his 
way  in  Paris  and  who  sent  for  Alphonse  as  soon  as 
he  had  been  engaged  to  help  an  old  gentleman  in 
writing  his  memoirs.  The  younger  brother  has  de- 
scribed his  arrival  in  Paris,  and  his  first  dress-coat 
and  his  earliest  literary  acquaintances.  Ernest's 
salary  was  seventy-five  francs  a  month,  and  on 
this  the  two  brothers  managed  to  live ;  no  doubt 
fifteen  dollars  went  further  in  Paris  in  1857  than 
they  will  in   1899. 

In  those  days  of  privation  and  ambition  Daudet's 
longing  was  to  make  himself  famous  as  a  poet ;  and 
when  at  last,  not  yet  twenty  years  old,  he  began  his 
career  as  a  man  of  letters  it  was  by  the  publication 
of  a  volume  of  verse,  just  as  his  fellow-novelists, 
M.  Paul  Bourget  and  Signer  Gabriele  d'Annunzio 
have  severally  done.  Immature  as  juvenile  lyrics 
are  likely  to  be,  these  early  rhymes  of  Daudet's 
have  a  flavor  of  their  own,  a  faintly  recognizable 
note  of  individuality.  He  is  more  naturally  a  poet 
than  most  modern  literators  who  possess  the  ac- 
complishment of  verse  as  part  of  their  equipment 
for  the  literary  life,  but  who  lack  a  spontaneous 


Alp  house  Daudet.  xv 

impulse  toward  rhythm.  It  may  even  be  suggested 
that  his  Httle  poems  are  less  artificial  than  most 
French  verse ;  they  are  the  result  of  a  less  obvious 
effort.  He  lisped  in  numbers;  and  with  him  it  was 
rather  prose  that  had  to  be  consciously  acquired. 
His  lyric  note,  although  not  keen  and  not  deep,  is 
heard  again  and  again  in  his  novels,  and  it  sus- 
tains some  of  the  most  graceful  and  tender 
of  his  short  stories, —  "The  Death  of  the  Dau- 
phin," for  instance,  and  the  "  Sous-prefet  in  the 
Fields." 

Daudet  extended  poetry  to  include  playmaking; 
and  alone  or  with  a  friend  he  attempted  more  than 
one  little  piece  in  rhyme  —  tiny  plays  of  a  type 
familiar  enough  at  the  Odeon.  He  has  told  us  how 
the  news  of  the  production  of  one  of  these  poetic 
dramas  came  to  him  afar  in  Algiers  whither  he  had 
been  sent  because  of  a  weakness  of  the  lungs, 
threatening  to  become  worse  in  the  gray  Parisian 
winter.  Other  plays  of  his,  some  of  them  far  more 
important  than  this  early  effort,  were  produced  in 
the  next  few  years.  The  most  ambitious  of  these 
was  the  "  Woman  of  Aries,"  which  he  had  elabo- 
rated from  a  touching  short  story  and  for  which 
Bizet  composed  incidental  music  as  beautiful  and 
as  overwhelming  as  that  prepared  by  Mendelssohn 
for  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 

No  one  of  Daudet's  dramatic  attempts  was  really 
successful ;  not  the  "  Woman  of  Aries,"  which  is 
less  moving  in  the  theatre  than  in  its  briefer  nar- 
rative form,  not  even  the  latest  of  them  all,  the 


xvi  Alphonse  Daudet 

freshest  and  the  most  vigorous,  the  "  Struggle  for 
Life,"  with  its  sinister  figure  of  Paul  Astier  taken 
over  from  the  "  Immortal."  Apparently,  with  all 
his  desire  to  write  for  the  stage,  Daudet  must  have 
been  inadequately  endowed  with  the  dramaturgic 
faculty,  that  special  gift  of  playmaking  which  many 
a  poet  lacks  and  many  a  novelist,  but  which  the 
humblest  playwright  must  needs  have  and  which 
all  the  great  dramatists  have  possessed  abundantly 
in  addition  to  their  poetic  power. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  unfavorable  reception  of  his 
successive  dramas  which  is  responsible  for  the 
chief  of  Daudet's  lapses  from  the  kindliness  with 
which  he  treats  the  characters  that  people  his 
stories.  He  seems  to  have  kept  hot  a  grudge 
against  the  theatre :  and  he  relieves  his  feelings  by 
taking  it  out  of  the  stage-folk  he  introduces  into 
his  novels.  To  actors  and  actresses  he  is  intoler- 
ant and  harsh.  What  is  factitious  and  self-over- 
valuing in  the  Provenqal  type,  he  understood  and 
he  found  it  easy  to  pardon  ;  but  what  was  factitious 
and  self-overvaluing  in  the  player  type,  he  would 
not  understand  and  he  refused  to  pardon.  And 
here  he  shows  in  strong  contrast  with  a  successful 
dramatist,  M.  Ludovic  Hal^vy,  whose  knowledge  of 
the  histrionic  temperament  is  at  least  as  wide  as 
Daudet's  and  whose  humor  is  as  keen,  but  whose 
judgment  is  softened  by  the  grateful  memory  of 
many  victories  won  by  the  united  effort  of  the 
author  and   the   actor. 

Through  his  brother's  influence,  Alphonse  Daudet 


Alpho7ise  Daudet,  xvii 

was  appointed  by  the  Duke  de  Morny  to  a  semi- 
sinecure;  and  he  has  recorded  how  he  told  his 
benefactor  before  accepting  the  place  that  he  was 
a  Legitimist  and  how  the  Duke  smilingly  retorted 
that  the  Empress  was  also.  Although  it  was  as  a 
poet  that  Daudet  made  his  bow  in  the  world  of 
letters,  his  first  appearance  as  a  dramatist  was  not 
long  delayed  thereafter ;  and  he  soon  came  forward 
also  as  a  journalist,  —  or  rather  as  a  contributor  to 
the  papers.  While  many  of  the  articles  he  prepared 
for  the  daily  and  weekly  press  were  of  ephemeral 
interest  only,  as  the  necessity  of  journalism  demands, 
to  be  forgotten  forty-eight  hours  after  they  were 
printed,  not  a  few  of  them  were  sketches  having 
more  than  a  temporary  value.  Parisian  newspapers 
are  more  hospitable  to  literature  than  are  the  news- 
papers of  New  York  or  of  London ;  and  a  goodly 
proportion  of  the  young  Southerner's  journalistic 
writing  proved  worthy  of  preservation. 

It  has  been  preserved  for  us  in  three  volumes 
of  short  stories  and  sketches,  of  fantasies  and  im- 
pressions. Not  all  the  contents  of  the  "  Letters 
from  my  Mill,"  of  the  "Monday  Tales"  and  of 
"Artists'  Wives,"  as  we  have  these  collections 
now,  were  written  in  these  early  years  of  Dau- 
det's  Parisian  career,  but  many  of  them  saw  the 
light  before  1870,  and  what  has  been  added  since 
conforms  in  method  to  the  work  of  his  'prentice 
days.  No  doubt  the  war  with  Prussia  enlarged 
his  outlook  on  life;  and  there  is  more  depth  in 
the  satires  this  conflict  suggested  and  more  pathos 


xviii  Alphonse  Daudet. 

in  the  pictures  it  evoked.  The  "Last  Lesson," 
for  example,  that  simple  vision  of  the  old  French 
schoolmaster  taking  leave  of  his  Alsatian  pupils, 
has  a  symbolic  breath  not  easy  to  match  in  the 
livelier  tales  written  before  the  surrender  at 
Sedan;  and  in  the  "Siege  of  Berlin"  there  is  a 
vibrant  patriotism  far  more  poignant  than  we  can 
discover  in  any  of  the  playful  apologues  published 
before  the  war.  He  had  had  an  inside  view  of 
the  Second  Empire,  he  could  not  help  seeing 
its  hollowness,  and  he  revolted  against  the  sel- 
fishness of  its  servants;  no  single  chapter  of  M. 
Zola's  splendid  and  terrible  "Downfall"  con- 
tains a  more  damning  indictment  of  the  leaders 
of  the  imperial  army  than  is  to  be  read  in  Dau- 
det's  "Game  of  Billiards." 

The  short  story,  whether  in  prose  or  in  verse, 
is  a  literary  form  in  which  the  French  have  ever 
displayed  an  easy  mastery;  and  from  Daudet's 
three  volumes  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  select 
half-a-dozen  little  masterpieces.  The  Provencal 
tales  lack  only  rhymes  to  stand  confessed  as 
poesy ;  and  many  a  reader  may  prefer  these  first 
flights  before  Daudet  set  his  Pegasus  to  toil  in 
the  mill  of  realism.  The  "Pope's  Mule,"  for  in- 
stance, is  not  this  a  marvel  of  blended  humor  and 
fantasy?  And  the  "Elixir  of  Father  Gaucher," 
what  could  be  more  naively  ironic  ?  Like  a  true 
Southerner,  Daudet  delights  in  girding  at  the 
Church;  and  these  tales  bristle  with  jibes  at 
ecclesiastical  dignitaries;  but  his  stroke  is  never 


Alphonse  Daudet.  xix 

malignant  and  there  is  no  barb  to  his  shaft  nor 
poison  on  the  tip. 

Scarcely  inferior  to  the  war-stories  or  to  the 
Provencal  sketches  are  certain  vignettes  of  the 
capital,  swift  silhouettes  of  Paris,  glimpsed  by  an 
unforgetting  eye,  the  "  Last  Book,"  for  one,  in 
which  an  unlovely  character  is  treated  with  kindly 
contempt;  and  for  another,  the  "Book-keeper," 
the  most  Dickens-like  of  Daudet's  shorter  pieces, 
yet  having  a  literary  modesty  Dickens  never  at- 
tained. The  alleged  imitation  of  the  British 
novelist  by  the  French  may  be  left  for  later  con- 
sideration; but  it  is  possible  now  to  note  that  in 
the  earlier  descriptive  chapters  of  the  "  Letters 
from  my  Mill  "  one  may  detect  a  certain  similar 
ity  of  treatment  and  attitude,  not  to  Dickens  but 
to  two  of  the  masters  on  whom  Dickens  modelled 
himself.  Goldsmith  and  Irving.  The  scene  in 
the  diligence,  when  the  baker  gently  pokes  fun  at 
the  poor  fellow  whose  wife  is  intermittent  in  her 
fidelity,  is  quite  in  the  manner  of  the  "Sketch 
Book." 

There  is  the  same  freshness  and  fertility  in 
the  collection  called  "Artists'  Wives"  as  in 
the  "Letters  from  my  Mill,"  and  the  "Monday 
Tales,"  but  not  the  same  playfulness  and  fun. 
They  are  severe  studies,  all  of  them;  and  they 
all  illustrate  the  truth  of  Bagehot's  saying  that  a 
man's  mother  might  be  his  misfortune,  but  his 
wife  was  his  fault.  It  is  a  rosary  of  marital  infe- 
licities that  Daudet  has  strun<r  for  us  in  this  vol- 


XX  Alp  house  Daudef. 

ume,  and  in  every  one  of  them  the  husband  is 
expiating  his  blunder.  With  ingenious  variety 
the  author  rings  the  changes  on  one  theme,  on 
the  sufferings  of  the  ill-mated  poet  or  painter  or 
sculptor,  despoiled  of  the  sympathy  he  craves, 
and  shackled  even  in  the  exercise  of  his  art. 
And  the  picture  is  not  out  of  drawing,  for  Daudet 
can  see  the  wife's  side  of  the  case  also;  he  can 
appreciate  her  bewilderment  at  the  ugly  duckling 
whom  it  is  so  difficult  for  her  to  keep  in  the  nest. 
The  women  have  made  shipwreck  of  their  lives 
too,  and  they  are  companions  in  misery,  if  not 
helpmeets  in  understanding.  This  is  perhaps  the 
saddest  of  all  Daudet's  books,  the  least  relieved 
by  humor,  the  most  devoid  of  the  gaiety  which 
illumines  the  "  Letters  from  my  Mill "  and  the 
first  and  second  "  Tartarin  "  volumes.  But  it  is 
also  one  of  the  most  veracious;  it  is  life  itself 
firmly  grasped  and  honestly  presented. 

It  is  not  matrimonial  incongruity  at  large  in  all 
its  shifting  aspects  that  Daudet  here  considers; 
it  is  only  the  married  unhappiness  of  the  artist, 
whatever  his  mode  of  expression,  and  whichever 
of  the  muses  he  has  chosen  to  serve;  it  is  only 
the  wedded  life  of  the  man  incessantly  in  search 
of  the  ideal,  and  never  relaxing  in  the  strain  of 
his  struggle  with  the  inflexible  material  from 
which  he  must  shape  his  vision  of  existence. 
Not  only  in  this  book,  but  in  many  another  has 
Daudet  shown  that  he  perceives  the  needs  of  the 
artistic  temperament,  its  demands,  its  limitations 


Alphonse  Daudet,  xxi 

and  its  characteristics.  There  is  a  playwright  in 
"Rose  and  Ninette;"  there  is  a  painter  in  the 
"  Immortal ;  "  there  is  an  actor  in  "  Fromont 
and  Risler;"  there  are  a  sculptor,  a  poet, 
and  a  novelist  on  the  roll  of  the  heroine's 
lovers  in  "Sapho. "  Daudet  handles  them  gently 
always,  unless  they  happen  to  belong  to  the  theatre. 
Toward  the  stage-folk  he  is  pitiless;  for  all  other 
artists  he  has  abundant  appreciation;  he  is  not 
blind  to  their  little  weaknesses,  but  these  he 
can  forgive  even  though  he  refuses  to  forget ;  he 
is  at  home  with  them.  He  is  never  patronizing, 
as  Thackeray  is,  who  also  knows  them  and  loves 
them.  Thackeray's  attitude  is  that  of  a  gen- 
tleman born  to  good  society,  but  glad  to  visit 
Bohemia,  because  he  can  speak  the  language; 
Daudet's  is  that  of  a  man  of  letters  who  thinks 
that  his  fellow-artists  are  really  the  best  society. 


III. 

Not  with  pictures  of  artists  at  home  did  Dau- 
det conquer  his  commanding  position  in  litera- 
ture, not  with  short  stories,  not  with  plays,  not 
with  verses.  These  had  served  to  make  him 
known  *to  the  inner  circle  of  lovers  of  literature 
who  are  quick  to  appreciate  whatever  is  at 
once  new  and  true;  but  they  did  not  help  him  to 
break  through  the  crust  and  to  reach  the  hearts  of 
the  broad  body  of  readers  who  care  little  for  the 


xxii  AlpJionse  Daudet. 

delicacies  of  the  season,  but  must  ever  be  fed  on 
strong  meat.  When  the  latest  of  the  three  vol- 
umes of  short  stories  was  published,  and  when 
the  "  Woman  of  Aries  "  was  produced,  the  trans- 
formation was  complete:  the  poet  had  developed 
into  a  veritist,  without  ceasing  to  be  a  poet,  and 
the  Provengal  had  become  a  Parisian.  His  wan- 
der-years were  at  an  end,  and  he  had  made  a 
happy  marriage.  Lucky  in  the  risky  adventure 
of  matrimony,  as  in  so  many  others,  he  chanced 
upon  a  woman  who  was  congenial,  intelligent  and 
devoted,  and  who  became  almost  a  collaborator  in 
all  his  subsequent  works. 

His  art  was  ready  for  a  larger  effort;  it  was 
ripe  for  a  richer  fruitage.  Already  had  he  made 
more  than  one  attempt  at  a  long  story,  but  this 
was  before  his  powers  had  matured,  and  before  he 
had  come  to  a  full  knowedge  of  himself.  "  Little 
What 's-his-name,"  as  he  himself  has  confessed, 
lacks  perspective;  it  was  composed  too  soon  after 
the  personal  experiences  out  of  which  it  was 
made,  — before  Time  had  put  the  scenes  in  proper 
proportion  and  before  his  hand  was  firm  in  its 
stroke.  "  Robert  Helmont  "  is  the  journal  of  an 
observer  who  happens  also  to  be  a  poet  and  a  pat- 
riot ;  but  it  has  scarcely  substance  enough  to  war- 
rant calling  it  a  story.  Much  of  the  material 
used  in  the  making  of  these  books  was  very  good 
indeed ;  but  the  handling  was  a  little  uncertain, 
and  the  result  is  not  quite  satisfactory,  charming 
as  both  of   them  are,    with  the  seductive  grace 


Alp  house  Daudet.  xxiii 

which  is  Daudet' s  birthright  and  his  trademark 
In  his  brief  tales  he  had  shown  that  he  had  thi 
story-telling  faculty,  the  ability  to  project  charac- 
ter, the  gift  of  arousing  interest ;  but  it  remained 
for  him  to  prove  that  he  possessed  also  the  main 
strength  requisite  to  carry  him  through  the  long 
labor  of  a  full-grown  novel.  It  is  not  by  gentle 
stories  like  "Robert  Helmont "  and  "Little 
What  *s-his-name "  that  a  novelist  is  promoted 
to  the  front  rank ;  and  after  he  had  written  these 
two  books  he  remained  where  he  was  before,  in 
the  position  of  a  promising  young  author. 

The  promise  was  fulfilled  by  the  publication 
of  "Fromont  and  Risler," — not  the  best  of  his 
novels,  but  the  earliest  in  which  his  full  force 
was  displayed.  Daudet  has  told  us  how  this  was 
planned  originally  as  a  play,  how  the  failure 
of  the  "Woman  of  Aries"  led  him  to  relinquish 
the  dramatic  form,  and  how  the  supposed  neces- 
sities of  the  stage  warped  the  logical  structure  of 
the  story,  turning  upon  the  intrigues  of  the  young 
wife  the  interest  which  should  have  been  concen- 
trated upon  the  partnership,  the  business  rivalry, 
the  mercantile  integrity,  whence  the  novel  de- 
rived its  novelty.  The  falsifying  habit  of  thrust- 
ing marital  infidelity  into  the  foreground  of  fiction 
when  the  theme  itself  seems  almost  to  exclude 
any  dwelling  on  amorous  misadventure,  Daudet 
yielded  to  only  this  once;  and  this  is  one  reason 
why  a  truer  view  of  Parisian  life  can  be  found  in 
his  pages  than  in  those  of  any  of  his  competitors. 


xxiv  Alphonse  Daudet. 

and  why  his  works  are  far  less  monotonous  than 
theirs. 

He  is  not  squeamish,  as  every  reader  of 
"Sapho"  can  bear  witness;  but  he  does  not  wan- 
tonly choose  a  vulgar  adultery  as  the  staple  of  his 
stories.  French  fiction,  ever  since  the  tale  of 
"Tristan  and  Yseult"  was  first  told,  has  tended 
to  be  a  poem  of  love  triumphant  over  every  ob- 
stacle, even  over  honor;  and  Daudet  is  a  French- 
man with  French  ideas  about  woman  and  love  and 
marriage;  he  is  not  without  his  share  of  Gallic 
salt;  but  he  is  too  keen  an  observer  not  to  see 
that  there  are  other  things  in  life  than  illicit  woo- 
ings,  —  business,  for  example,  and  politics,  and 
religion,  —  important  factors  all  of  them  in  our 
complicated  modern  existence.  At  the  root  of 
him  Daudet  had  a  steadfast  desire  to  see  life  as 
a  whole  and  to  tell  the  truth  about  it  unhesitat- 
ingly; and  this  is  a  characteristic  he  shares  only 
with  the  great  masters  of  fiction,  —  essentially 
veracious,    every  one  of  them. 

Probably  Dickens,  trequently  as  he  wrenched 
the  facts  of  life  into  conformity  with  his  rather 
primitive  artistic  code,  believed  that  he  also  was 
telling  the  truth.  It  is  in  Daudet's  paper  ex- 
plaining how  he  came  to  write  "  Fromont  and 
Risler "  that  he  discusses  the  accusation  that 
he  was  an  imitator  of  Dickens, — an  accusa- 
tion which  seems  absurd  enough  now  that  the 
careers  of  both  writers  are  closed,  and  that  we 
can  com.pare  their  complete  works.      Daudet  re- 


Alphonse  Daudet.  xxv 

cords  that  the  charge  was  brought  against  him 
very  early,  long  before  he  had  read  Dickens,  and 
he  explains  that  any  likeness  that  may  exist  is 
due  not  to  copying  but  to  kinship  of  spirit.  "  I 
have  deep  in  my  heart,"  he  says,  "the  same  love 
Dickens  has  for  the  maimed  and  the  poor,  for 
the  children  brought  up  in  all  the  deprivation  of 
great  cities."  This  pity  for  the  disinherited,  for 
those  that  have  had  no  chance  in  life,  is  not  the 
only  similarity  between  the  British  novelist  and 
the  French;  there  is  also  the  peculiar  combina- 
tion of  sentiment  and  humor.  Daudet  is  not 
so  bold  as  Dickens,  not  so  robust,  not  so  over- 
mastering ;  but  he  is  far  more  discreet,  far  truer 
to  nature,  far  finer  in  his  art ;  he  does  not  let  his 
humor  carry  him  into  caricature,  nor  his  senti- 
ment slop  over  into  sentimentality. 

Even  the  minor  French  novelists  strive  for 
beauty  of  form,  and  would  be  ashamed  of  the 
fortuitous  scaffolding  that  satisfies  the  British 
story-tellers.  A  eulogist  of  Dickens,  Mr.  George 
Gissing,  has  recently  remarked  acutely  that  "  Dau- 
det has  a  great  advantage  in  his  mastery  of  con- 
struction. Where,  as  in  '  Fromont  and  Risler, ' 
he  constructs  too  well,  that  is  to  say,  on  the  stage 
model,  we  see  what  a  gain  it  was  to  him  to  have 
before  his  eyes  the  Paris  stage  of  the  Second 
Empire,  instead  of  that  of  London  in  the  earlier 
Victorian  time."  Where  Dickens  emulated  the 
farces  and  the  melodramas  of  forgotten  British 
playwrights,  Daudet  was  influenced  rather  by  the 


xxvi  Alp  house  Daudet, 

virile  dramas  of  Dumas  fits  and  Augier.  But  in 
"  Fromont  and  Risler,"  not  only  is  the  plot  a  trifle 
stagy,  but  the  heroine  herself  seems  almost  a 
refugee  of  the  footlights  ;  exquisitely  presented  as 
Sidonie  is,  she  fails  quite  to  captivate  or  con- 
vince, perhaps  because  her  sisters  have  been  seen 
so  often  before  in  this  play  and  in  that.  And 
now  and  again  even  in  his  later  novels  we  dis- 
cover that  Daudet  has  needlessly  achieved  the 
adroit  arrangement  of  events  so  useful  in  the 
theatre  and  not  requisite  in  the  library.  In 
"The  Nabob,"  for  example,  it  is  the  "  long  arm  of 
coincidence  "  that  brings  Paul  de  G6ry  to  the  inn 
on  the  Riviera,  and  to  the  very  next  room  therein 
at  the  exact  moment  when  Jenkins  catches  up 
with  the  fleeing  Felicia. 

Yet  these  lapses  into  the  arbitrary  are  infre- 
quent after  all ;  and  as  "  Fromout  and  Risler  "  was 
followed  first  by  one  and  then  by  another  novel, 
the  evil  influence  of  theatrical  conventionalism 
disappears.  Daudet  occasionally  permits  himself 
an  underplot;  but  he  acts  always  on  the  prin- 
ciple he  once  formulated  to  his  son:  "every  book 
is  an  organism;  if  it  has  not  its  organs  in  place,  it 
dies,  and  its  corpse  is  a  scandal."  Sometimes,  as 
in  "  Fromont  and  Risler,"  he  starts  at  the  moment 
when  the  plot  thickens,  returning  soon  to  make 
clear  the  antecedents  of  the  characters  first  shown 
in  action;  and  sometimes,  as  in  "Sapho, "  he  be- 
gins right  at  the  beginning  and  goes  straight 
through  to  the  end.     But,  whatever  his  method, 


Alphonse  Daudef.  xxvii 

there  is  never  any  doubt  as  to  the  theme;  and  the 
essential  unity  is  always  apparent.  This  severity 
of  design  in  no  way  limits  the  variety  of  the 
successive  acts  of  his  drama. 

While  a  novel  of  Balzac's  is  often  no  more  than 
an  analysis  of  character,  and  while  a  novel  of 
Zola's  is  a  massive  epic  of  human  endeavor,  a  novel 
of  Daudet's  is  a  gallery  of  pictures,  brushed  in 
with  the  sweep  and  certainty  of  a  master-hand,  — 
portraits,  landscapes  with  figures,  marines,  battle- 
pieces,  bits  of  ge7ire,  views  of  Paris.  And  the 
views  of  Paris  outnumber  the  others,  and  almost 
outvalue  them  also.  Mr.  Henry  James  has  noted 
that  "The  Nabob"  is  "full  of  episodes  which  are 
above  all  pages  of  execution,  triumphs  of  trans- 
lation. The  author  has  drawn  up  a  list  of  the 
Parisian  solemnities,  and  painted  the  portrait,  or 
given  a  summary,  of  each  of  them.  The  opening 
day  at  the  Salon,  a  funeral  at  Pere  la  Chaise,  a 
debate  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  the  prcviihe 
of  a  new  play  at  a  favorite  theatre,  furnish  him 
with  so  many  opportunities  for  his  gymnastics  of 
observation."  And  "The  Nabob"  is  only  a  little 
more  richly  decorated  than  the  "Immortal,"  and 
"Numa  Roumestan,"  and  "Kings  in  Exile." 

These  pictures,  these  carefully  wrought  master- 
pieces of  rendering  are  not  lugged  in,  each  for  its 
own  sake ;  they  are  not  outside  of  the  narrative ; 
they  are  actually  part  of  the  substance  of  the 
story.  Daudet  excels  in  describing,  and  every 
artist  is  prone  to  abound  in  the  sense  of  his  supe- 


xxviii  Alpho7ise  Daudet. 

riority.  As  the  French  saying  puts  it,  a  man  has 
always  the  defects  of  his  qualities;  yet  Daudet 
rarely  obtrudes  his  descriptions,  and  he  generally 
uses  them  to  explain  character  and  to  set  off  or 
bring  out  the  moods  of  his  personages.  They  are 
so  swift  that  I  am  tempted  to  call  them  flash- 
lights; but  photographic  is  just  what  they  are 
not,  for  they  are  artistic  in  their  vigorous  sup- 
pression of  the  unessentials;  they  are  never  gray 
or  cold  or  hard ;  they  vibrate  with  color  and  tingle 
with  emotion. 

And  just  as  a  painter  keeps  filling  his  sketch- 
books with  graphic  hints  for  elaboration  later,  so 
Daudet  was  indefatigable  in  note-taking.  He 
explains  his  method  in  his  paper  of  "  Fromont  and 
Risler;"  how  he  had  for  a  score  of  years  made 
a  practice  of  jotting  down  in  little  note-books 
not  only  his  remarks  and  his  thoughts,  but  also 
a  rapid  record  of  what  he  had  heard  with  his  ears 
ever  on  the  alert,  and  what  he  had  seen  with 
those  tireless  eyes  of  his.  Yet  he  never  let 
the  dust  of  these  note-books  choke  the  life  out  of 
him.  Every  one  of  his  novels  was  founded  on 
fact,  — plot,  incidents,  characters  and  scenery. 

He  used  his  imagination  to  help  him  to  see; 
he  used  it  also  to  peer  into  and  behind  the  mere 
facts.  All  that  he  needed  to  invent  was  a  con- 
necting link  now  and  again;  and  it  may  as  well 
be  admitted  at  once  that  these  mere  inventions 
are  sometimes  the  least  satisfactory  part  of  his 
stories.    The  two  young  men  in  "The  Nabob,"  for 


Alphonse  Daudet.  xxix 

instance,  whom  Mr.  Henry  James  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  tell  apart,  the  sculptor-painter  in  the  "  Im- 
mortal,"  the  occasional  other  characters  which  we 
discover  to  be  made  up,  lack  the  individuality 
and  the  vitality  of  figures  taken  from  real  life 
by  a  sympathetic  effort  of  interpretative  imagina- 
tion. Delobelle,  Gardinois,  "all  the  personages 
of  'Fromont'  have  lived,"  Daudet  declares ;  and 
he  adds  a  regret  that  in  depicting  old  Gardinois 
he  gave  pain  to  one  he  loved,  but  he  "  could  not 
suppress  this  type  of  egotist,  aged  and  terrible." 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  art  of  story-telling, 
the  narrators  must  have  gone  to  actuality  to  get 
suggestions  for  their  character-drawing;  and  noth- 
ing is  commoner  than  the  accusation  that  this  or 
that  novelist  has  stolen  his  characters  ready- 
made, —  filching  them  from  nature's  shop-win- 
dow, without  so  much  as  a  by-your-leave. 
Daudet  is  bold  in  committing  these  larcenies 
from  life  and  frank  in  confessing  them,  —  far 
franker  than  Dickens,  who  tried  to  squirm  out  of 
the  charge  that  he  had  put  Landor  and  Leigh 
Hunt  unfairly  into  fiction.  Perhaps  Dickens  was 
bolder  than  Daudet,  if  it  is  true  that  he  drew 
Micawber  from  his  own  father,  and  Mrs.  Nickleby 
from  his  own  mother.  Daudet  was  taxed  with  in- 
gratitude that  he  had  used  as  the  model  of  Mora, 
the  Duke  de  Morny,  who, had  befriended  him; 
and  he  defended  himself  by  declaring  that  he 
thought  the  duke  would  find  no  fault  with  the 
way    Mora    had    been    presented.      But  a  great 


XXX  Alphonse  Daudet. 

artist  has  never  copied  his  models  slavishly;  he 
has  utilized  them  in  the  effort  to  realize  to  his 
own  satisfaction  what  he  has  already  imagined. 
Daudet  maintained  to  his  son  that  those  who 
were  without  imagination  cannot  even  observe 
accurately.  Invention  alone,  mere  invention,  an 
inferior  form  of  mental  exercise,  suffices  to  pro- 
vide a  pretty  fair  romantic  tale,  remote  from  the 
facts  of  every-day  life,  but  only  true  imagination 
can  sustain  a  realistic  novel  where  every  reader's 
experience  qualifies  him  to  check  off  the  author's 
progress,  step  by  step. 


IV. 

It  would  take  too  long —  although  the  task 
would  be  amusing  —  to  call  the  roll  of  Daudet's 
novels  written  after  "Fromont  and  Risler"  had 
revealed  to  him  his  own  powers,  and  to  discuss 
what  fact  of  Parisian  history  had  been  the  start- 
ing point  of  each  of  them  and  what  notabilities 
of  Paris  had  sat  for  each  of  the  chief  characters. 
Mr.  Henry  James,  for  instance,  has  seen  it  sug- 
gested that  Felicia  Ruys  is  intended  as  a  portrait 
of  Mme.  Sarah-Bernhardt ;  M.  Zola,  on  the  other 
hand,  denies  that  Felicia  Ruys  is  Mme.  Sarah- 
Bernhardt  and  hints  that  she  is  rather  Mme. 
Judith  Gautier.  Daudet  himself  refers  to  the 
equally  absurd  report  that  Gambetta  was  the  orig- 
inal of  Numa  Roumestan, — a  report  over  which 


Alp  house  Daudet.  xxxi 

the  alleged  subject  and  the  real  author  laughed 
together,  Daudet' s  own  attitude  toward  his  crea- 
tions is  a  little  ambiguous  or  at  least  a  little 
inconsistent ;  in  one  paper  he  asserts  that  every 
character  of  his  has  had  a  living  original,  and  in 
another  he  admits  that  Elysee  Meraut,  for  ex- 
ample,  is  only  in  part  a  certain  Therion, 

The  admission  is  more  nearly  exact  than  the 
assertion.  Every  novelist  whose  work  is  to  en- 
dure even  for  a  generation  must  draw  from  life, 
sometimes  generalizing  broadly  and  sometimes 
keeping  close  to  the  single  individual,  but  always 
free  to  modify  the  mere  fact  as  he  may  have  ob- 
served it  to  conform  with  the  larger  truth  of  the 
fable  he  shall  devise.  Most  story-tellers  tend  to 
generalize,  and  their  fictions  lack  the  sharpness 
of  outline  we  find  in  nature.  Daudet  prefers 
to  retain  as  much  of  the  actual  individual  as  he 
dares  without  endangering  the  web  of  his  com- 
position; and  often  the  transformation  is  very 
slight, —  Mora,  for  instance,  who  is  probably  a 
close  copy  of  Morny,  but  who  stands  on  his  own 
feet  in  "The  Nabob,"  and  lives  his  own  life 
as  independently  as  though  he  was  a  sheer  imag- 
ination. More  rarely  the  result  is  not  so  satis- 
factory; J.  Tom  L6vis,  for  example,  for  whose 
authenticity  the  author  vouches,  but  who  seems 
out  of  place  in  "Kings  in  Exile,"  like  a  fantastic 
invention,  such  as  Balzac  sometimes  permitted 
himself  as  a  relief  from  his  rigorous  realism. 

For  incident  as  well  as  for  character  Daudet 


xxxii  )i  Alpho7ise  Daudet. 

goes  to  real  life.  The  escape  of  Colette  from 
under  the  eyes  of  her  father-in-law,  —  that  actu- 
ally happened ;  but  none  the  less  does  it  fit  into 
"Kings  in  Exile."  And  Colette's  cutting  off  her 
hair  in  grief  at  her  husband's  death,  — that  actu- 
ally happened  also;  but  it  belongs  artistically  in 
the  "Immortal."  On  the  other  hand,  the  fact 
which  served  as  the  foundation  of  the  "Immor- 
tal "  —  the  taking  in  of  a  savant  by  a  lot  of 
forged  manuscripts  —  has  been  falsified  by  chang- 
ing the  savant  from  a  mathematician  (who  might 
easily  be  deceived  about  a  matter  of  autographs) 
to  a  historian  (whose  duty  it  is  to  apply  all 
known  tests  of  genuineness  to  papers  purporting 
to  shed  new  light  on  the  past).  This  borrowing 
from  the  newspaper  has  its  evident  advantages, 
but  it  has  its  dangers  also,  even  in  the  hands 
of  a  poet  as  adroit  as  Daudet  and  as  imagina- 
tive. Perhaps  the  story  of  his  which  is  most 
artistic  in  its  telling,  most  shapely,  most  harmo- 
nious in  its  modulations  of  a  single  theme  to  the 
inevitable  end,  developed  without  haste  and  with- 
out rest,  is  "  Sapho ;  "  and  "  Sapho  "  is  the  novel 
of  Daudet's  in  which  there  seems  to  be  the  least 
of  this  stencilling  of  actual  fact,  in  which  the 
generalization  is  the  broadest,  and  in  which 
the  observation  is  least  restricted  to  single  indi- 
viduals. 

But  in  "  Sapho "  the  theme  itself  is  narrow, 
narrower  than  in  "  Numa  Roumestan,"  and  far 
narrower  than  in  either  "  The  Nabob  "  or  "  Kings 


Alphonse  Daudet,  xxxiii 

in  Exile; "  and  this  is  why  "  Sapho,"  fine  as  it  is, 
and  subtle,  is  perhaps  less  satisfactory.  No  other 
French  novelist  of  the  final  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  not  Flaubert,  not  Goncourt,  not  M.  Zola, 
not  Maupassant,  has  four  novels  as  solid  as  these, 
as  varied  in  incident,  as  full  of  life,  as  rich  in 
character,  as  true.  They  form  the  quadrilateral 
wherein  Daudet's  fame  is  secure. 

"  Sapho "  is  a  daughter  of  the  "  Lady  of  the 
Camellias,"  and  a  grand-daughter  of  "  Manon  Les- 
caut,"  —  Frenchwomen,  all  of  them,  and  of  a 
class  French  authors  have  greatly  affected.  But 
Daudet's  book  is  not  a  specimen  of  what  Lowell 
called  "that  corps-de-ballet  literature  in  which  the 
most  animal  of  the  passions  is  made  more  tempt- 
ingly naked  by  a  veil  of  French  gauze."  It  is  at 
bottom  a  moral  book,  much  as  "Tom  Jones"  is 
moral.  Fielding's  novel  is  English,  robust, 
hearty,  brutal  in  a  way,  and  its  morality  is  none 
too  lofty.  Daudet's  is  French,  softer,  more  ener- 
vating, and  with  an  almost  complacent  dwelling 
on  the  sins  of  the  flesh.  But  neither  Fielding 
nor  Daudet  is  guilty  of  sentimentality,  the  one 
unforgivable  crime  in  art.  In  his  treatment  of 
the  relation  of  the  sexes  Daudet  was  above  all 
things  truthful ;  his  veracity  is  inexorable.  He 
shows  how  man  is  selfish  in  love  and  woman  also, 
and  how  the  egotism  of  the  one  is  not  as  the  egot- 
ism of  the  other.  He  shows  how  Fanny  Legrand 
slangs  her  lover  with  the  foul  language  of  the 
gutter  whence  she  sprang,  and  how  Jean  when  he 


xxxiv  Alphonse  Daiidet. 

strikes  back,  refrains  from  foul  blows.  He  shows 
how  Jean,  weak  of  will  as  he  was,  gets  rid  of  the 
millstone  about  his  neck,  only  because  of  the 
weariness  of  the  woman  to  whom  he  has  bound 
himself.  He  shows  us  the  various  aspects  of 
the  love  which  is  not  founded  on  esteem,  the 
Hettema  couple,  De  Potter  and  Rose,  D^chelette 
and  Alice  Dore,  all  to  set  off  the  sorry  idyl  of 
Fanny  and  Jean. 

In  "  Numa  Roumestan  "  there  is  a  larger  vis- 
ion of  life  than  in  "Sapho,"  even  if  there  is  no 
deeper  insight.  The  construction  is  almost  as 
severe;  and  the  movement  is  unbroken  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  without  excursus  or  digression. 
The  central  figure  is  masterly, — the  kindly  and 
selfish  Southerner,  easy-going  and  soft-spoken,  an 
orator  who  is  so  eloquent  that  he  can  even  con- 
vince himself,  a  politician  who  thinks  only  when 
he  is  talking,  a  husband  who  loves  his  wife  as 
profoundly  as  he  can  love  anybody  except  him- 
self, and  who  loves  his  wife  more  than  his  tem- 
porary mistress,  even  during  the  days  of  his 
dalliance.  Numa  is  a  native  of  the  South  of 
France,  as  was  Daudet  himself;  and  it  is  out  of 
the  fulness  of  knowledge  that  the  author  evolves 
the  character,  brushing  in  the  portrait  with  bold 
strokes  and  unceasingly  adding  caressing  touches 
till  the  man  actually  lives  and  moves  before  our 
eyes.  The  veracity  of  the  picture  is  destroyed 
by  no  final  inconsistency.  What  Numa  is,  Numa 
will  be.      Daudet  never  descends  at  the  end  of 


Alphonse  Daudet.  xxxv 

his  novels  like  a  god  from  the  machine  to  change 
character  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  to 
convert  bad  men  to  good  thoughts  and  good 
deeds. 

He  can  give  us  goodness  when  he  chooses,  a 
human  goodness,  not  offensively  perfect,  not 
preaching,  not  mawkish,  but  high-minded  and 
engaging.  There  are  two  such  types  in  "Kings 
in  Exile,"  the  Queen  and  Elysee  Meraut,  essen* 
tially  honest  both  of  them,  thinking  little  of  self, 
and  sustained  by  lofty  purpose.  Naturalistic 
novelists  generally  (and  M.  Zola  in  particular), 
live  in  a  black  world  peopled  mainly  by  fools  and 
knaves;  from  this  blunder  Daudet  is  saved  by  his 
Southern  temperament,  by  his  lyric  fervor,  and, 
at  bottom,  by  his  wisdom.  He  knows  better;  he 
knows  that  while  a  weak  creature  like  Christian 
n.  is  common,  a  resolute  soul  like  Frederique 
is  not  so  very  rare.  He  knows  that  the  con- 
trast and  the  clash  of  these  characters  is  interest- 
ing matter  for  the  novelist.  And  no  novelist  has 
had  a  happier  inspiration  than  that  which  gave  us 
"Kings  in  Exile,"  a  splendid  subject,  splendidly 
handled,  and  lending  itself  perfectly  to  the  dis- 
play of  Daudet's  best  qualities,  his  poetry,  his 
ability  to  seize  the  actual,  and  his  power  of  deal- 
ing with  material  such  as  the  elder  Dumas  would 
have  delighted  in  with  a  restraint  and  a  logic  the 
younger  Dumas  would  have  admired.  Plot  and 
counter-plot,  bravery,  treachery,  death,  —  these 
are  elements  for  a  romanticist   farrago;   and   in 


XXX vi  Alphonse  Daudet. 

Daudet's  hands  they  are  woven  into  a  tapestry 
almost  as  stiff  as  life  itself.  The  stuff  is  roman- 
tic enough,  but  the  treatment  is  unhesitatingly 
realistic;  and  "Kings  in  Exile,"  better  than  any 
other  novel  of  Daudet's,  explains  his  vogue  with 
readers  of  the  most  divergent  tastes. 

In  "The  Nabob,"  the  romantic  element  is 
slighter  than  in  "Kings  in  Exile;"  the  subject 
is  not  so  striking;  and  the  movement  of  the  story 
is  less  straightforward.  But  what  a  panorama  of 
Paris  it  is  that  he  unrolls  before  us  in  this  story 
of  a  luckless  adventurer  in  the  city  of  luxury  then 
under  the  control  of  the  imperial  band  of  brig- 
ands! No  doubt  the  Joyeuse  family  is  an  obtru- 
sion and  an  artistic  blemish,  since  they  do  not 
logically  belong  in  the  scheme  of  the  story;  and 
yet  they  (and  their  fellows  in  other  books  of 
Daudet's)  testify  to  his  effort  to  get  the  truth 
and  the  whole  truth  into  his  picture  of  Paris  life. 
Mora  and  Felicia  Ruys  and  Jenkins,  these  are 
the  obverse  of  the  medal,  exposed  in  the  shop- 
windows  that  every  passer-by  can  see.  The  Joy- 
euse girls  and  their  father  are  the  reverse,  to  be 
viewed  only  by  those  who  take  the  trouble  to  look 
at  the  under  side  of  things.  They  are  samples  of 
the  simple,  gentle,  honest  folk,  of  whom  there 
must  be  countless  thousands  in  France  and  even 
in  its  capital,  but  who  fail  to  interest  most  French 
novelists  just  because  they  are  not  eccentric  or 
wicked  or  ugly.  Of  a  truth,  Aline  Joyeuse  is  as 
typically  Parisian  as  Felicia  Ruys  herself;  both 


Alp  house  Daudet,  xxxvil 

are  needed  if  the  census  is  to  be  complete;  and 
the  omission  of  either  is  a  source  of  error. 

There  is  irony  in  Daudet's  handling  of  these 
humbler  figures,  but  it  is  compassionate  and 
almost  affectionate.  If  he  laughs  at  Father  Joy- 
euse  there  is  no  harshness  and  no  hostility  in  his 
mirth.  For  the  Joyeuse  daughters  he  has  indul- 
gence and  pity;  and  his  humor  plays  about  them 
and  leaves  them  scart-free.  It  never  stings  them 
or  scorches  or  sears,  as  it  does  Astier-R^hu  and 
Christian  II.  and  the  Prince  of  Axel,  in  spite  of 
his  desire  to  be  fair  toward  all  the  creatures  of 
his  brain. 

Irony  is  only  one  of  the  manifestations  of  Dau- 
det's humor.  Wit  he  has  also,  and  satire.  And 
he  is  doubly  fortunate  in  that  he  has  both  humor 
and  the  sense-of-humor  —  the  positive  and  the 
negative.  It  is  the  sense-of-humor,  so  called, 
that  many  humorists  are  without,  a  deprivation 
which  allows  them  to  take  themselves  so  seri- 
ously that  they  become  a  laughing-stock  for  the 
world.  It  is  the  sense-of-humor  that  makes  the 
master  of  comedy,  that  helps  him  to  see  things 
in  due  proportion  and  perspective,  that  keeps  him 
from  exaggeration  and  emphasis,  from  sentimen- 
tality and  melodrama  and  bathos.  It  is  the 
sense-of-humor  that  prevents  our  making  fools  of 
ourselves ;  it  is  humor  itself  that  softens  our 
laughter  at  those  who  make  themselves  ridicu- 
lous. In  his  serious  stories  Daudet  employs 
this  negative  humor  chiefly,  as  though  he  had  in 


xxxviii  Alphonse  Daudet. 

memory  La  Bruyere's  assertion  that  "he  who 
makes  us  laugh  rarely  is  able  to  win  esteem  for 
himself."  His  positive  humor,  — gay,  exuberant, 
contagious,  —  finds  its  full  field  for  display  in 
some  of  the  short  stories,  and  more  especially  in 
the  Tartarin  series. 

Has  any  book  of  our  time  caused  more  laugh- 
ter than  "  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  "  —  unless  it  be 
"  Tartarin  on  the  Alps  "  ?  I  can  think  only  of 
one  rival  pair,  "  Tom  Sawyer  "  and  "  Huckleberry 
Finn," — for  Mark  Twain  and  Alphonse  Daudet 
both  achieved  the  almost  impossible  feat  of  writ- 
ing a  successful  sequel  to  a  successful  book,  of 
forcing  fortune  to  a  repetition  of  a  happy  acci- 
dent. The  abundant  laughter  the  French  humor- 
ist excited  is  like  that  evoked  by  the  American 
humorist,  —  clean,  hearty,  healthy,  self-respect- 
ing; it  is  in  both  cases  what  George  Eliot  in  one 
of  her  letters  called  "the  exquisite  laughter  that 
comes  from  a  gratification  of  the  reasoning  fac- 
ulty." Daudet  and  Mark  Twain  are  imaginative 
realists;  their  most  amusing  extravagance  is  but 
an  exaggeration  of  the  real  thing;  and  they  never 
let  factitious  fantasy  sweep  their  feet  off  the 
ground.  Tartarin  is  as  typical  of  Provence  as 
Colonel  Sellers  —  to  take  that  figure  of  Mark 
Twain's  which  is  most  like  —  is  typical  of  the 
Mississippi  Valley. 

Tartarin  is  as  true  as  Numa  Roumestan;  in 
fact  they  may  almost  be  said  to  be  sketched  from 
the  same  model  but  in  a  very  different  temper. 


Alp  house  Daudet,  xxxix 

In  "  Numa  Roumestan  "  we  are  shown  the  sober 
side  of  the  Southern  temperament,  the  sorrow  it 
brings  in  the  house  though  it  displays  joy  in  the 
street;  and  in  "  Tartarin  "  we  behold  only  the 
immense  comicality  of  the  incessant  incongruity 
between  the  word  and  the  deed.  Tartarin  is 
Southern,  it  is  true,  and  French ;  but  he  is  very 
human  also.  There  is  a  boaster  and  a  liar  in 
most  of  us,  lying  in  wait  for  a  chance  to  rush  out 
and  put  us  to  shame.  It  is  this  universality  of 
Daudet's  satire  that  has  given  Tartarin  its  vogue 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  The  ingenuity  of 
Tartarin's  misadventures,  the  variety  of  them  in 
Algiers  and  in  Switzerland,  the  obvious  reason- 
ableness of  them  all,  the  delightful  probability 
of  these  impossibilities,  the  frank  gaiety  and  the 
unflagging  high  spirits,  —  these  are  precious 
qualities,  all  of  them ;  but  it  is  rather  the  essen- 
tial humanness  of  Tartarin  himself  that  has  given 
him  a  reputation  throughout  the  world.  Very 
rarely  indeed  now  or  in  the  past  has  an  author 
been  lucky  enough  to  add  a  single  figure  to  the 
cosmopolitan  gallery  of  fiction.  Cervantes,  De 
Foe,  Swift,  Le  Sage,  Dumas,  have  done  it ;  Field- 
ing and  Hawthorne  and  Turgenef  have  not. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  Daudet  takes  pride  in  this. 
The  real  joy  of  the  novelist,  he  declares,  is  to 
create  human  beings,  to  put  on  their  feet  types  of 
humanity  who  thereafter  circulate  through  the 
world  with  the  name,  the  gesture,  the  grimace  he 
has   given  them  and   who  are   cited   and   talked 


xl  Alphonse  Daudet. 

about  without  reference  to  their  creator  and  with- 
out even  any  mention  of  him.  And  whenever 
Daudet  heard  some  puppet  of  politics  or  litera- 
ture called  a  Tartarin,  a  shiver  ran  through  him 
—  "the  shiver  of  pride  of  a  father,  hidden  in  the 
crowd  that  is  applauding  his  son  and  wanting  all 
the  time  to  cry  out  *  That 's  my  boy ! '  " 


V. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come  for  a  final  estimate 
of  Daudet's  position,  —  if  a  time  ever  arrives 
when  any  estimate  can  be  final.  But  already  has 
a  selection  been  made  of  the  masterpieces  which 
survive,  and  from  which  an  author  is  judged  by 
the  next  generation  that  will  have  time  to  criti- 
cise only  the  most  famous  of  the  works  this  gen- 
eration leaves  behind  it.  We  can  see  also  that 
much  of  Daudet's  later  writing  is  slight  and  not 
up  to  his  own  high  standard,  although  even  his 
briefest  trifle  had  always  something  of  his  charm, 
of  his  magic,  of  his  seductive  grace.  We  can 
see  how  rare  an  endowment  he  has  when  we  note 
that  he  is  an  acute  observer  of  mankind,  and  yet 
without  any  taint  of  misanthropy,  and  that  he 
combines  fidelity  of  reproduction  with  poetic 
elevation. 

He  is  —  to  say  once  more  what  has  already 
been  said  in  these  pages  more  than  once  —  he  is 
a  lover  of  romance  with  an  unfaltering  respect  for 


Alphonse  Daudet.  xli 

reality.  We  all  meet  with  strange  experiences 
once  in  our  lives,  with  "things  you  could  put  in 
a  story,"  as  the  phrase  is;  but  we  none  of  us  have 
hairbreadth  escapes  every  morning  before  break- 
fast. The  romantic  is  as  natural  as  anything 
else;  it  is  the  excess  of  the  romantic  which  is  in 
bad  taste.  It  is  the  piling  up  of  the  agony  which 
is  disgusting.  It  is  the  accumulation  upon  one 
impossible  hero  of  many  exceptional  adventures 
which  is  untrue  and  therefore  immoral.  Daudet's 
most  individual  peculiarity  was  his  skill  in  seiz- 
ing the  romantic  aspects  of  the  commonplace. 
In  one  of  his  talks  with  his  son  he  said  that  a 
novelist  must  beware  of  an  excess  of  lyric  en- 
thusiasm; he  himself  sought  for  emotion,  and 
emotion  escaped  when  human  proportions  were 
exceeded.  Balance,  order,  reserve,  symmetry, 
sobriety,  —  these  are  the  qualities  he  was  ever 
praising.  The  real,  the  truthful,  the  sincere,  — 
this  is  what  he  sought  always  to  attain. 

Daudet  may  lack  the  poignant  intensity  of 
Balzac,  the  lyric  sweep  of  Hugo,  the  immense 
architectural  strength  of  M.  Zola,  the  implacable 
disinterestedness  of  Flaubert,  the  marvellous  con- 
centration of  Maupassant,  but  he  has  more  humor 
than  any  of  them  and  more  charm,  — more  sym- 
pathy than  any  but  Hugo,  and  more  sincerity 
than  any  but  Flaubert.  His  is  perhaps  a  rarer 
combination  than  any  of  theirs,  —  the  gift  of 
story-telling,  the  power  of  character-drawing,  the 
grasp  of  emotional  situation,  the  faculty  of  analy- 


xlil  Alphonse  Dandet. 

sis,  the  feeling  for  form,  the  sense  of  style,  an 
unfailing  and  humane  interest  in  his  fellow-men, 
and  an  irresistible  desire  to  tell  the  truth  about 
life  as  he  saw  it  with  his  own  eyes. 


BRAND ER   MATTHEWS. 


Columbia  University, 
IN  THE  City  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I.  Dr.  Jenkins'  Patients      7 

II.  A  Breakfast  on  Place  Vend6me 37 

III.  Memoirs  of  a  Clerk. — A  Casual  Glance  at 

the  "Caisse  Territoriale  " 63 

IV.  A  Debut  in  Society 77 

V.  The  Joyeuse  Family 103 

VI.  Felicia  Ruys 128 

VII.  Jansoulet  at  Home 156 

VIII.  The  Work  of  Bethlehem       172 

IX.  Grandmamma 193 

X.   Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants      .    .    .  216 

XI.  The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey 238 

XII.  A  Cqrsican  Election 272 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Volume   One. 

Front  Drawings  by  Lucius  Rossi. 

"  '  Take  away  your  flowers,  my  dear '  "  .     .     .     Frontispiece 

"'His  Excellency,  the  Due  de  Mora! '" 88 

"  De  Gdry  looked  at  M.  Joyeuse  with  an  air  of  stupe- 
faction " 1 94 


THE    NABOB. 


A  HUNDRED  years  ago  Le  Sage  wrote  these  words 
at  the  head  of  Gil  Bias  : 

"  As  there  are  persons  who  cannot  read  a  book  with- 
out making  personal  application  of  the  vicious  or  absurd 
characters  they  find  therein,  I  hereby  declare  for  the 
benefit  of  such  evil-minded  readers  that  they  will  err  in 
making  such  application  of  the  portraits  in  this  book. 
I  make  public  avowal  that  my  only  aim  has  been  to 
represent  the  life  of  mankind  as  it  is." 

Without  attempting  to  draw  any  comparison 
between  Le  Sage's  novel  and  my  own,  I  may  say 
that  I  should  have  liked  to  place  a  declaration  of 
the  same  nature  on  the  first  page  of  T/ie  Nabob,  at 
the  time  of  its  publication.  Several  reasons 
prevented  my  doing  so.  In  the  first  place,  the  fear 
that  such  an  advertisement  might  seem  too  much 
like  a  bait  thrown  out  to  the  public,  an  attempt  to 
compel  its  attention.  Secondly,  I  was  far  from 
suspecting  that  a  book  written  with  a  purely 
literary  purpose  could  acquire  at  a  bound  such 
anecdotal  importance,  and  bring  down  upon  me 
such  a  buzzing  swarm  of  complaints.    Indeed,  such 

VOL.    I.—  I 


2  The  Nabob. 

a  thing  was  never  seen  before.  Not  a  line  of  my 
work,  not  one  of  its  heroes,  not  even  a  character 
of  secondary  importance,  but  has  become  a  pretext 
for  allusions  and  protestations.  To  no  purpose 
does  the  author  deny  the  imputation,  swear  by  all 
the  gods  that  there  is  no  key  to  his  novel  —  every 
one  forges  at  least  one,  with  whose  assistance  he 
claims  to  open  that  combination  lock.  It  must  be 
that  all  these  types  have  lived,  bless  my  soul !  that 
they  live  to-day,  exactly  identical  from  head  to 
foot.  Monpavon  is  So-and-So,  is  he  not?  Jen- 
kins* resemblance  is  striking.  One  man  is  angry 
because  he  is  in  it,  another  one  because  he  is  not 
in  it;  and,  beginning  with  this  eagerness  for  scan- 
dal, there  is  nothing,  not  even  chance  similarities 
of  name,  fatal  in  the  modern  novel,  descriptions  of 
streets,  numbers  of  houses  selected  at  random,  that 
has  not  served  to  give  identity  to  beings  built 
of  a  thousand  pieces  and,  moreover,  absolutely 
imaginary. 

The  author  is  too  modest  to  take  all  this  outcry 
to  himself.  He  knows  how  great  a  part  the  friendly 
or  treacherous  indiscretions  of  the  newspapers  have 
had  therein ;  and  without  thanking  the  former  more 
than  is  seemly,  without  too  great  ill-will  to  the  latter, 
he  resigns  himself  to  the  stormy  prospect  as  some- 
thing inevitable,  and  simply  deems  himself  in  duty 
bound  to  affirm  that  he  has  never,  in  twenty  years 
of  upright,  literary  toil,  resorted  to  that  element  of 
success,  neither  on  this  occasion  nor  on  any  other. 
As  he  turned  the  leaves  of  his  memory,  which  it  is 
every  novelist's  right  and  duty  to  do,  he  recalled  a 


The  Nabob.  3 

strange  episode  that  occurred  in  cosmopolitan  Paris 
some  fifteen  years  ago.  The  romance  of  a  daz- 
zling career  that  shot  swiftly  across  the  Parisian  sky 
like  a  meteor  evidently  served  as  the  frame-work 
of  The  Nabob,  a  picture  of  manners  and  morals  at 
the  close  of  the  Second  Empire.  But  around  that 
central  situation  and  certain  well-known  incidents, 
which  it  was  every  one's  right  to  study  and  revive, 
what  a  world  of  fancy,  what  inventions,  what  elab- 
oration, and,  above  all,  what  an  outlay  of  that 
incessant,  universal,  almost  unconscious  observa- 
tion, without  which  there  could  be  no  imaginative 
writers.  Furthermore,  to  obtain  an  idea  of  the 
"  crystallizing  "  labor  involved  in  transporting  the 
simplest  circumstances  from  reality  to  fiction,  from 
life  to  romance,  one  need  only  open  the  Moniteiir 
Officiel  of  February,  1864,  and  compare  a  certain 
session  of  the  Corps  Legislatif  with  the  picture  that 
I  give  of  it  in  my  book.  Who  could  have  supposed 
that,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,  this  Paris, 
famous  for  its  short  memory,  would  recognize  the 
original  model  in  the  idealized  picture  the  novelist 
has  drawn  of  him,  and  that  voices  would  be  raised 
to  charge  with  ingratitude  one  who  most  assuredly 
was  not  his  hero's  "  assiduous  guest,"  but  simply,  in 
their  infrequent  meetings,  an  inquisitive  acquaint- 
ance on  whose  mind  the  truth  is  quickly  photo- 
graphed, and  who  can  never  efface  from  his 
memory  the  images  that  are  once  imprinted 
thereon? 

I  knew  the  "  real  Nabob"  in  1864.     I  occupied 
at  that  time  a  semi-official  position  which  forced 


4  The  Nabob. 

me  to  exhibit  great  reserve  in  my  visits  to  that 
luxurious  and  hospitable  Levantine.  Later  I  was 
intimately  associated  with  one  of  his  brothers ;  but 
at  that  time  the  poor  Nabob  was  far  away,  strug- 
gling through  thickets  of  cruel  brambles,  and  he 
was  seen  at  Paris  only  occasionally.  Moreover,  it 
is  very  unpleasant  for  a  courteous  man  to  reckon 
thus  with  the  dead,  and  to  say :  "  You  are  mistaken. 
Although  he  was  an  agreeable  host,  I  was  not  often 
seen  at  his  table."  Let  it  suffice  therefore,  for  me 
to  declare  that,  in  speaking  of  Mere  Frangoise's 
son  as  I  have  done,  it  has  been  my  purpose  to 
represent  him  in  a  favorable  light,  and  that  the 
charge  of  ingratitude  seems  to  me  an  absurdity 
from  every  standpoint.  That  this  is  true  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  many  people  consider  the  portrait 
too  flattering,  more  interesting  than  nature.  To 
such  people  my  reply  is  very  simple  :  "  Jansoulet 
strikes  me  as  an  excellent  fellow ;  but  at  all  events, 
if  I  am  wrong,  you  can  blame  the  newspapers  for 
telling  you  his  real  name.  I  gave  you  my  novel 
as  a  novel,  good  or  bad,  without  any  guaranty  of 
resemblances." 

As  to  Mora,  that  is  another  matter.  Something 
has  been  said  of  indiscretion,  of  political  defection. 
Great  Heaven !  I  have  never  made  a  secret  of  it. 
At  the  age  of  twenty,  I  was  connected  with  the 
office  of  the  high  functionary  who  has  served  as  my 
model ;  and  my  friends  of  those  days  know  what  a 
serious  political  personage  I  made.  The  Department 
also  must  have  strange  recollections  of  that  eccentric 
clerk  with  the  Merovingian  beard,  who  was  always 


The  Nabob.  5 

the  last  to  arrive  and  the  first  to  depart,  and  who 
never  went  up  to  the  duke's  private  office  except 
to  ask  leave  of  absence ;  of  a  naturally  indepen- 
dent character,  too,  with  hands  unstained  by  any- 
thing like  sycophancy,  and  so  little  reconciled  to 
the  Empire  that,  on  the  day  when  the  duke  pro- 
posed to  him  to  enter  his  service,  the  future  attache 
deemed  it  his  duty  to  declare  with  touching 
juvenile  solemnity  that  "  he  was  a  Legitimist," 

"  So  is  the  Empress,"  was  His  Excellency's 
reply,  and  he  smiled  with  calm  and  impertinent 
condescension.  I  always  saw  him  with  that  smile 
on  his  face,  nor  had  I  any  need  to  look  through 
keyholes ;  and  I  have  drawn  him  so,  as  he  loved 
to  appear,  in  his  RicheHeu-Brummel  attitude. 
History  will  attend  to  the  statesman.  I  have 
exhibited  him,  introducing  him  at  long  range  in 
my  fictitious  drama,  as  the  worldly  creature  that  he 
was  and  wished  to  be,  being  well  assured  that  in 
his  lifetime  it  would  not  have  offended  him  to  be 
so  presented. 

This  is  what  I  had  to  say.  And  now,  having 
made  these  declarations  in  all  frankness,  let  us 
return  to  work  with  all  speed.  My  preface  will 
seem  a  little  short,  and  the  curious  reader  will  seek 
in  vain  therein  the  anticipated  piquancy.  So  much 
the  worse  for  him.  Brief  as  this  page  may  be,  it 
is  three  times  too  long  for  me.  Prefaces  have  this 
disadvantage,  that  they  prevent  one  from  writing 
books. 

Alphonse  Daudet. 


I. 

DOCTOR  JENKINS'  PATIENTS. 

Standing  on  the  stoop  of  his  little  house  on  Rue 
de  Lisbonne,  freshly  shaved,  with  sparkling  eye, 
lips  slightly  parted,  long  hair  tinged  with  gray  fall- 
ing over  a  broad  coat-collar,  square-shouldered, 
robust,  and  sound  as  an  oak,  the  illustrious  Irish 
doctor,  Robert  Jenkins,  chevalier  of  the  Medjidie 
and  of  the  distinguished  order  of  Charles  III.  of 
Spain,  member  of  several  learned  and  benevolent 
societies,  founder  and  president  of  the  Work  of 
Bethlehem,  —  in  a  word,  Jenkins,  the  Jenkins  of 
the  Jenkins  Arsenical  Pills,  that  is  to  say,  the  fash- 
ionable physician  of  the  year  1864,  and  the  busiest 
man  in  Paris,  was  on  the  point  of  entering  his  car- 
riage, one  morning  toward  the  end  of  November, 
when  a  window  on  the  first  floor  looking  on  the 
inner  courtyard  was  thrown  open,  and  a  woman's 
voice  timidly  inquired : 

"  Shall  you  return  to  breakfast,  Robert?" 

Oh !  what  a  bright,  affectionate  smile  it  was  that 

suddenly  illumined  that  handsome,  apostle-like  face, 

and   how  readily  one  could  divine,  in  the  loving 

good-morning  that  his  eyes  sent  up  to  the  warm 


8  The  Nabob. 

white  peignoir  visible  behind  the  parted  hangings, 
one  of  those  tranquil,  undoubting  conjugal  pas- 
sions, which  custom  binds  with  its  most  flexible 
and  strongest  bonds. 

"No,  Madame  Jenkins  "  —  he  loved  to  give  her 
thus  publicly  her  title  of  legitimate  wife,  as  if  he 
felt  a  secret  satisfaction  therein,  a  sort  of  salve  to 
his  conscience  with  respect  to  the  woman  who 
made  life  so  attractive  to  him  — "  No,  do  not 
expect  me  this  morning.  I  am  to  breakfast  on 
Place  Vendome." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  the  Nabob,"  said  the  lovely  Madame 
Jenkins,  with  a  very  marked  inflection  of  respect 
for  that  personage  out  of  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights,  of  whom  all  Paris  had  been  talking  for  a 
month ;  then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
whispered  between  the  heavy  hangings,  very  softly, 
very  lovingly,  for  the  doctor's  ear  alone  :  "  Be  sure 
and  not  forget  what  you  promised  me." 

It  was  probably  a  promise  very  difficult  to 
keep,  for,  at  the  reminder,  the  apostle's  brows  con- 
tracted, his  smile  froze  upon  his  lips,  his  whole 
face  assumed  an  incredibly  harsh  expression; 
but  it  was  a  matter  of  a  moment.  The  faces  of 
these  fashionable  physicians  become  very  expert 
in  lying,  by  the  bedsides  of  their  wealthy  pa- 
tients. With  his  most  affectionate,  most  cordial 
manner,  and  showing  a  row  of  dazzling  teeth,  he 
replied : 

"  What  I  promised  shall  be  done,  Madame  Jen- 
kins. Now,  go  in  at  once  and  close  your  window. 
The  mist  is  cold  this  morning." 


Dr.  Jenkins    Patients.  9 

Yes,  the  mist  was  cold,  but  white  as  snow ;  and, 
hovering  outside  the  windows  of  the  comfortable 
coupe,  it  lighted  up  with  soft  reflections  the  news- 
paper in  the  doctor's  hands.  Over  yonder  in  the 
dark,  crowded,  populous  quarters,  in  the  Paris  of 
tradesmen  and  workmen,  they  know  nothing  of  the 
pretty  morning  mist  that  loiters  on  the  broad  ave- 
nues ;  the  bustle  of  the  waking  hours,  the  passing 
and  repassing  of  market-gardeners'  wagons,  omni- 
buses, drays  loaded  with  old  iron,  soon  chop  it  and 
rend  it  and  scatter  it.  Each  passer-by  carries  away 
a  little  of  it  on  a  threadbare  coat,  a  worn  muffler, 
or  coarse  gloves  rubbing  against  each  other.  It 
drenches  the  shivering  blouses,  the  waterproofs 
thrown  over  working  dresses ;  it  blends  with  all 
the  breaths,  hot  with  insomnia  or  alcohol,  buries 
itself  in  the  depths  of  empty  stomachs,  penetrates 
the  shops  which  are  just  opening  their  doors,  dark 
courtyards,  staircases,  where  it  stands  on  the  bal- 
usters and  walls,  and  fireless  garrets.  That  is 
why  so  little  of  it  remains  out-of-doors.  But  in 
that  open,  stately  portion  of  Paris  where  Dr.  Jen- 
kins' patients  Hved,  on  those  broad  tree-lined 
boulevards,  those  deserted  quays,  the  mist  soared 
immaculate,  in  innumerable  waves,  as  light  and 
fleecy  as  down.  It  was  compact,  discreet,  almost 
luxurious,  because  the  sun,  slothful  in  his  rising, 
was  beginning  to  diffuse  soft,  purplish  tints,  which 
gave  to  the  mist  that  enveloped  everything,  even 
the  roofs  of  the  rows  of  mansions,  the  aspect  of  a 
sheet  of  white  muslin  spread  over  scarlet  cloth. 
One  would  have  said  that  it  was  a  great  curtain 


lo  The  Nabob, 

sheltering  the  long,  untroubled  sleep  of  wealth,  a 
thick  curtain  behind  which  nothing  could  be  heard 
save  the  soft  closing  of  a  porte-cochere,  the  rattling 
of  the  milkmen's  tin  cans,  the  bells  of  a  herd  of 
asses  trotting  by,  followed  by  the  short,  panting 
breath  of  their  conductor,  and  the  rumbling  of 
Jenkins'  coupe  beginning  its  daily  round. 

First  of  all,  to  the  hotel  de  Mora.  On  the  Quai 
d'Orleans,  beside  the  Spanish  embassy,  stood  a 
superb  palace  with  its  principal  entrance  on  Rue 
de  Lille,  and  a  door  on  the  riverside,  and  long  ter- 
races which  formed  a  continuation  of  those  of  the 
embassy.  Between  two  high,  ivy-covered  walls, 
connected  by  imposing  stone  arches,  the  coupe 
flew  like  an  arrow,  announced  by  two  strokes  of 
a  clanging  bell,  which  aroused  Jenkins  from  the 
trance  in  which  the  perusal  of  his  newspaper 
seemed  to  have  plunged  him.  Then  the  wheels 
rolled  less  noisily  over  the  gravel  of  a  vast  court- 
yard and  stopped,  after  a  graceful  sweep,  at  the 
front  steps,  above  which  was  spread  a  circular 
awning.  One  could  see  indistinctly  through  the 
mist  half  a  score  of  carriages  in  a  line,  and  the 
silhouettes  of  English  grooms  leading  the  duke's 
saddle-horse  up  and  down  an  avenue  of  acacias, 
all  leafless  at  that  season  and  standing  naked  in 
their  bark.  Everything  revealed  well-ordered, 
pompous,  assured  luxury. 

"  It  makes  no  difference  how  early  I  come, 
others  are  always  here  before  me,"  said  Jenkins, 
glancing  at  the  line  in  which  his  coupd  took  its 
place ;  but,  certain  of  not  being  compelled  to  wait, 


Dr.  Jenkins   Patients.  1 1 

with  head  erect  and  a  tranquil  air  of  authority,  he 
went  up  the  official  steps,  over  which  so  many- 
trembling  ambitions,  so  many  stumbling  anxieties 
passed  every  day. 

Even  in  the  reception-room,  high-studded,  and 
resonant  as  a  church,  which  two  huge  fires  filled 
with  gleaming  life,  notwithstanding  the  great  stoves 
burning  day  and  night,  the  magnificence  of  the 
establishment  burst  upon  one  in  warm  and  heady 
puffs.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  the  hot-house 
and  the  drying-room  as  well.  Great  heat  and 
abundant  light;  white  wainscoting,  white  marble 
statues,  immense  windows,  nothing  confined  or 
close,  and  yet  an  equable  atmosphere  well  fitted 
to  encompass  the  existence  of  some  delicate,  over- 
refined,  nervous  mortal.  Jenkins  expanded  in  that 
factitious  sunlight  of  wealth;  he  saluted  with  a 
"  good-morning,  boys,"  the  powdered  Swiss  with 
the  broad  gilt  baldric  and  the  footmen  in  short 
clothes  and  blue  and  gold  livery,  all  of  whom  had 
risen  in  his  honor,  touched  lightly  with  his  finger 
the  great  cage  of  monkeys  capering  about  with 
shrill  cries,  and  darted  whistling  up  the  white 
marble  stairs  covered  with  a  carpet  soft  and  dense 
as  a  lawn,  to  the  duke's  apartments.  Although 
he  had  been  coming  to  the  hotel  de  Mora  for  six 
months,  the  good  doctor  had  not  yet  become 
hardened  to  the  purely  physical  impression  of 
cheerfulness  and  lightness  of  heart  caused  by  the 
atmosphere  of  that  house. 

Although  it  was  the  abode  of  the  highest  func- 
tionary of  the  Empire,  there  was  nothing  to  sug- 


12  The  Nabob. 

gest  the  departments  or  their  boxes  of  dusty 
documents.  The  duke  had  consented  to  accept 
the  exalted  post  of  Minister  of  State  and  President 
of  the  Council  only  on  condition  that  he  need  not 
leave  his  house ;  that  he  should  go  to  the  depart- 
ment only  an  hour  or  two  a  day,  long  enough  to 
affix  his  signatures  to  documents  that  required  it, 
and  that  he  should  hold  his  audiences  in  his  bed- 
room. At  that  moment,  although  it  was  so  early, 
the  salon  was  full.  There  were  serious,  anxious 
faces,  provincial  prefects  with  shaven  lips  and 
administrative  whiskers,  something  less  arrogant 
in  that  reception-room  than  in  their  prefectures ; 
magistrates,  stern  of  manner,  dignified  of  gesture ; 
deputies  full  of  importance,  shining  lights  of 
finance,  substantial  manufacturers  from  the  coun- 
try; and  among  them  could  be  distinguished,  here 
and  there,  the  thin  ambitious  face  of  a  deputy 
councillor  to  some  prefecture,  in  the  garb  of  a 
solicitor,  black  coat  and  white  cravat;  and  one 
and  all,  standing  or  seated,  alone  or  in  groups, 
silently  forced  with  a  glance  the  lock  of  that 
lofty  door,  closed  upon  their  destinies,  from  which 
they  would  come  forth  in  a  moment,  triumphant 
or  crestfallen.  Jenkins  walked  rapidly  through 
the  crowd,  and  every  one  followed  with  an  envi- 
ous eye  this  new  arrival,  whom  the  usher,  in  his 
chain  of  office,  frigid  and  correct  in  his  bearing, 
seated  at  a  table  beside  the  door,  greeted  with  a 
smile  that  was  both  respectful  and  familiar. 

"  Who  is  with  him?  "  the  doctor  inquired,  point- 
ing to  the  duke's  room. 


Dr.  Jenkins    Patients,  13 

With  the  end  of  his  Hps,  and  not  without  a 
slightly  ironical  twinkle  of  the  eye,  the  usher 
murmured  a  name,  which,  if  they  had  heard  it, 
would  have  angered  all  those  exalted  personages 
who  had  been  waiting  an  hour  for  the  costumier 
of  the  opera  to  finish  his  audience. 

A  murmur  of  voices,  a  flash  of  light  —  Jenkins 
had  entered  the  duke's  presence  ;  he  never  waited. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  dressed  in  a 
blue  fur-trimmed  jacket,  which  heightened  by  its 
soft  reflection  the  strength  and  haughtiness  of 
his  face,  the  President  of  the  Council  was  super- 
intending the  drawing  of  a  Pierrette's  costume  for 
the  duchess  to  wear  at  her  next  ball,  and  giving 
directions  with  as  much  gravity  as  if  he  were  dic- 
tating the  draft  of  a  law. 

"  Have  very  fine  pleats  on  the  ruff  and  none  at 
all  on  the  sleeves.  —  Good-morning,  Jenkins.  At 
your  service." 

Jenkins  bowed  and  stepped  forward  into  the 
enormous  room,  whose  windows,  opening  on  a 
garden  that  extended  to  the  Seine,  commanded 
one  of  the  loveliest  views  in  all  Paris,  the  bridges, 
the  Tuileries,  the  Louvre,  interlaced  with  trees  as 
black  as  if  they  were  drawn  in  India  ink  on  the 
wavering  background  of  the  mist.  A  broad,  very 
low  bed  on  a  platform  a  few  steps  above  the  floor, 
two  or  three  small  lacquer  screens  with  vague 
fanciful  decorations  in  gold,  denoting,  as  did  the 
double  doors  and  the  heavy  woollen  carpet,  a 
dread  of  cold  carried  to  excess,  chairs  of  various 
styles,  long  chairs  and  low  chairs,  placed  at  ran- 


14  The  Nabob. 

dom,  all  well-stufifed  and  of  lazy  or  voluptuous 
shapes,  composed  the  furniture  of  that  famous 
room,  where  the  most  momentous  and  the  most 
trivial  questions  were  discussed  with  the  same 
gravity  of  tone  and  manner.  There  was  a  beauti- 
ful portrait  of  the  duchess  on  the  wall ;  and  on 
the  mantel  a  bust  of  the  duke,  the  work  of  Felicia 
Ruys,  which  had  received  the  honor  of  a  medal 
of  the  first  class  at  the  recent  Salon. 

"Well,  Jenkins,  how  goes  it  this  morning?"  said 
His  Excellency,  walking  to  meet  the  doctor,  while 
the  costumer  was  collecting  his  fashion  plates, 
which  were  strewn  about  over  all  the  chairs. 

"And  you,  my  dear  duke?  I  fancied  that  you 
were  a  little  pale  last  night  at  the  Vari^tes." 

"  Nonsense  !  I  was  never  so  well.  Your  pills 
have  a  most  amazing  effect  on  me.  I  feel  so 
lively,  so  vigorous.  When  I  think  how  completely 
foundered  I  was  six  months  ago !  " 

Jenkins,  without  speaking,  had  put  his  great 
head  against  the  minister's  jacket,  at  the  spot 
where  the  heart  beats  in  the  majority  of  man- 
kind. He  listened  a  moment  while  His  Excel- 
lency continued  to  talk  in  the  indolent,  listless 
tone  which  was  one  of  his  chief  claims  to  dis- 
tinction. 
J*"  "  Whom  were  you  with  last  night,  doctor?     That 

great  bronzed  Tartar  who  laughed  so  loud  at  the 
front  of  your  box?" 

"  That  was  the  Nabob,  Monsieur  le  Due.  The 
famous  Jansoulet,  who  is  so  much  talked  about 
just  now." 


Dr,  Jenkijis   Patients.  15 

"  I  might  have  suspected  it.  The  whole  audi- 
ence was  looking  at  him.  The  actresses  played 
at  him  all  the  time.  Do  you  know  him  ?  What 
sort  of  a  man  is  he?" 

"  I  know  him.  That  is,  I  am  treating  him. 
Thanks,  my  dear  duke,  that 's  all.  Everything  is 
all  right  there.  When  he  arrived  in  Paris  a  month 
ago,  the  change  of  climate  disturbed  him  a  little. 
He  sent  for  me,  and  since  then  has  taken  a  great 
fancy  to  me.  All  that  I  know  of  him  is  that  he 
has  a  colossal  fortune,  made  in  Tunis,  in  the  Bey's 
service,  that  he  has  a  loyal  heart,  a  generous  mind 
in  which  ideas  of  humanity  —  " 

"At  Tunis?"  the  duke  interposed,  being  natur- 
ally far  from  sentimental  and  humanitarian.  "  Then, 
why  the  name  of  Nabob?" 

"  Bah !  Parisians  don't  look  so  deep  as  that. 
In  their  eyes  every  rich  stranger  is  a  nabob,  no 
matter  where  he  comes  from.  This  one,  how- 
ever, has  just  the  physique  for  the  part,  coppery 
complexion,  eyes  like  coals  of  fire,  and  in  addition 
a  gigantic  fortune,  of  which  he  makes,  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying,  a  most  noble  and  most  intel- 
ligent use.  I  owe  it  to  him"  —  here  the  doctor 
assumed  an  air  of  modesty  —  "I  owe  it  to  him 
that  I  have  succeeded  at  last  in  inaugurating 
the  Work  of  Bethlehem  for  nursing  infants,  which 
a  morning  newspaper  that  I  was  looking  over  just 
now  —  the  Messager,  I  think,  —  calls  'the  great 
philanthropic  idea  of  the  century.'  " 

The  duke  glanced  in  an  absent-minded  way  at 


1 6  The  Nabob. 

the  sheet  the  doctor  handed  him.  He  was  not 
the  man  to  be  taken  in  by  paid  puffs. 

"  This  Monsieur  Jansoulet  must  be  very  wealthy," 
he  said  coldly.  "  He  is  a  partner  in  Cardailhac's 
theatre.  Monpavon  persuades  him  to  pay  his 
debts,  Bois-l'Hery  stocks  his  stable  for  him  and 
old  Schwalbach  furnishes  a  picture  gallery.  All 
that  costs  money." 

Jenkins  began  to  laugh. 

"  What  can  you  expect,  my  dear  duke  ;  you  are 
an  object  of  great  interest  to  the  poor  Nabob. 
Coming  to  Paris  with  a  firm  purpose  to  become 
a  Parisian,  a  man  of  the  world,  he  has  taken  you 
for  his  model  in  everything,  and  I  do  not  conceal 
from  you  that  he  would  be  very  glad  to  study  his 
model  at  closer  quarters." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  Monpavon  has  already  asked 
leave  to  bring  him  here.  But  I  prefer  to  wait  and 
see.  One  must  be  on  one's  guard  with  these  great 
fortunes  that  come  from  such  a  distance.  Mon 
Dieii,  I  don't  say,  you  know,  that  if  I  should  meet 
him  elsewhere  than  in  my  own  house,  at  the 
theatre,  or  in  somebody's  salon  —  " 

"  It  happens  that  Madame  Jenkins  intends  to 
give  a  little  party  next  month.  If  you  would  do 
us  the  honor  —  " 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go  to  your  house,  my 
dear  doctor,  and  if  the  Nabob  should  be  there,  I 
should  not  object  to  his  being  presented  to  me." 

At  that  moment  the  usher  opened  the  door. 

"  Monsieur  le  Ministre  de  I'lnterieur  is  in  the 
blue  salon.     He  has  but  a  word  to  say  to  Your 


Dr.  Je7ikins    Patients,  17 

Excellency.  Monsieur  le  Prefet  de  Police  is  still 
waiting  below,  in  the  gallery." 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  will  go  to  him. 
But  I  should  like  to  make  a  definite  arrangement 
about  this  costume  first.  Let  us  see,  friend 
What  's-your-name,  what  do  we  decide  about  those 
ruffs?  All  revoir,  doctor.  Nothing  to  do  but  keep 
on  with  the  pearls,  is  there?  " 

"  Keep  on  with  the  pearls,"  said  Jenkins,  bow- 
ing ;  and  he  took  his  leave,  radiant  over  the  two 
bits  of  good  fortune  that  fell  to  his  lot  at  the  same 
time  —  the  honor  of  entertaining  the  duke,  and  the 
pleasure  of  gratifying  his  dear  Nabob,  The  crowd 
of  petitioners  through  whom  he  passed  in  the  ante- 
chamber was  even  greater  than  when  he  entered ; 
new  arrivals  had  joined  the  patient  waiters  of  the 
first  hour,  others  were  hurrying  upstairs,  pale- 
faced  and  full  of  business,  and  in  the  courtyard 
carriages  continued  to  arrive,  to  range  themselves 
gravely  and  solemnly  in  a  double  circle,  while  the 
question  of  ruffed  sleeves  was  discussed  upstairs 
with  no  less  solemnity, 

"  To  the  club,"  said  Jenkins  to  his  coachman. 

The  coupe  rolled  along  the  quays,  recrossed  the 
bridges,  and  turned  into  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
which  already  wore  a  different  aspect  from  that 
it  had  worn  a  short  time  before.  The  mist  had 
lifted  in  the  direction  of  the  Garde-Meuble  and 
the  Greek  temple  of  the  Madeleine,  revealing  here 
and  there  the  white  spray  of  a  fountain,  the  arcade 
of  a  palace,  the  top  of  a  statue,  the  shrubbery  of 

VOL.  I.  —  2 


1 8  The  Nabob. 

the  Tuileries,  shivering  by  the  gates.  The  veil,  not 
raised  but  rent  in  spots,  discovered  patches  of  blue 
sky :  and,  on  the  avenue  leading  to  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  one  could  see  breaks  driving  swiftly 
along,  filled  with  coachmen  and  jockeys,  dragoons 
of  the  Empress's  corps,  body-guards  in  gorgeous 
fur-lined  coats  riding  two  by  two  in  long  lines, 
with  a  great  clanking  of  bits  and  spurs  and  neigh- 
ing of  fresh  horses,  all  in  the  light  of  a  still  invisi- 
ble sun,  emerging  from  the  vague  depths  of  the 
mist,  plunging  into  it  again  in  masses,  like  a  swiftly- 
vanishing  vision  of  the  morning  splendor  of  that 
quarter. 

Jenkins  alighted  at  the  corner  of  Rue  Royale. 
From  roof  to  cellar  of  the  great  gambling-house 
servants  were  bustling  about,  shaking  rugs,  airing 
the  salons  where  the  odor  of  cigar-smoke  still 
lingered,  where  heaps  of  fine  ashes  were  blowing 
about  in  the  fireplaces,  while  on  the  green  tables, 
still  quivering  with  the  games  of  the  night,  the 
candles  were  still  "turning  in  silver  candelabra,  the 
flame  ascending  straight  into  the  pallid  light  of 
day.  The  uproar  and  the  going  and  coming 
ceased  on  the  third  floor,  where  several  members 
of  the  club  had  their  apartments.  Of  the  number 
was  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon,  to  whose  door 
Jenkins  bent  his  steps. 

"  Ah!  is  it  you,  doctor?  Deuce  take  it!  What 
time  is  it,  pray?     I  'm  not  at  home." 

"Not  even  to  the  doctor?" 

"  Oh!  not  to  anybody.  A  question  of  costume, 
my  dear  fellow.   Never  mind,  come  in  all  the  same. 


Dr.  Jenkins   Patients.  ig 

Toast  your  feet  a  moment  while  Frangois  finishes 
my  hair." 

Jenkins  entered  the  bedroom,  which  was  as 
prosaic  a  place  as  all  furnished  apartments  are, 
and  approached  the  fire,  where  curling-tongs  of 
all  dimensions  were  heating,  while  from  the  adjoin- 
ing laboratory,  separated  from  the  bedroom  by  an 
Algerian  curtain,  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon  sub- 
mitted to  the  manipulations  of  his  valet.  Odors 
of  patchouli,  cold  cream,  burned  horn  and  burned 
hair  escaped  from  the  restricted  quarters ;  and 
from  time  to  time,  when  Francois  came  out  to 
take  a  fresh  pair  of  tongs,  Jenkins  caught  a  glimpse 
of  an  enormous  dressing-table  laden  with  innumer- 
able little  instruments  of  ivory,  steel,  and  mother- 
of-pearl,  files,  scissors,  powder-puffs  and  brushes, 
phials,  cups,  cosmetics,  labelled,  arranged  in  lines, 
and  amid  all  that  rubbish,  petty  ironmongery  and 
dolls'  playthings,  a  hand,  the  hand  of  an  old  man, 
awkward  and  trembling,  dry  and  long,  with  nails 
as  carefully  kept  as  a  Japanese  painter's. 

While  making  up  his  face,  the  longest  and  most 
complicated  of  his  matutinal  occupations,  Mon- 
pavon chatted  with  the  doctor,  told  him  of  his 
aches  and  pains  and  of  the  good  effect  of  the 
pearls,  which  were  making  him  younger,  he  said. 
And  listening  to  him  thus,  at  a  little  distance, 
without  seeing  him,  one  would  have  believed  he 
was  the  Due  de  Mora,  he  had  so  faithfully  copied 
his  way  of  speaking.  There  were  the  same  un- 
finished sentences,  ending  in  a  ps — ps — ps  — 
uttered  between  the  teeth.     "  What 's-his-names  " 


20  The  Nabob. 

and  "  What-d'  ye-call-'ems  "  at  every  turn,  a  sort  of 
lazy,  bored,  aristocratic  stammer,  in  which  one 
divined  profound  contempt  for  the  vulgar  art  of 
speech.  In  the  duke's  circle  everybody  strove  to 
copy  that  accent,  those  disdainful  intonations,  in 
which  there  was  an  affectation  of  simplicity. 

Jenkins,  finding  the  session  a  little  tedious,  rose 
to  go. 

"  Adieu,  I  am  going.  Shall  I  see  you  at  the 
Nabob's?" 

"  Yes,  I  expect  to  breakfast  there  —  promised 
to  take  What  's-his-name,  Thingumbob,  you  know, 
about  our  great  affair  —  ps  —  ps  —  ps.  Were  n't  for 
that,  I  'd  stay  away  —  downright  menagerie,  that 
house." 

The  Irishman,  despite  his  kindly  feeling,  agreed 
that  the  society  at  his  friend's  house  was  a  little 
mixed.  But  what  of  that !  they  must  not  blame 
him  for  that.    He  did  n't  know  any  better,  poor  man. 

"  Does  n't  know  and  won't  learn,"  said  Mon- 
pavon  sourly.  "  Instead  of  consulting  men  of  ex- 
perience —  ps —  ps  — ps  —  takes  the  first  sycophant 
that  comes.  Did  you  see  the  horses  Bois-l'Hery 
bought  for  him?  Downright  swindle,  those  beasts. 
And  he  paid  twenty  thousand  francs  for  them. 
I  '11  wager  Bois-l'Hery  got  'em  for  six  thousand." 

"Oh!  fie,  fie  —  a  gentleman!"  said  Jenkins, 
with  the  indignation  of  a  noble  soul  refusing  to 
believe  in  evil. 

Monpavon  went  on,  as  if  he  did  not  hear: 

"  And  all  because  the  horses  came  from  Mora's 
stable !  " 


Dr.  Jenkins    Patients.  21 

*'  To  be  sure,  the  dear  Nabob's  heart  is  set  on 
the  duke.  So  that  I  shall  make  him  very  happy 
when  I  tell  him  —  " 

The  doctor  stopped,  in  some  embarrassment. 

"  When  you  tell  him  what,  Jenkins?  " 

Jenkins,  looking  decidedly  sheepish,  was  forced 
to  admit  that  he  had  obtained  permission  from 
His  Excellency  to  present  his  friend  Jansoulet, 
He  had  hardly  finished  his  sentence  when  a  tall 
spectre  with  flabby  cheeks  and  multicolored  hair 
and  whiskers  darted  from  the  dressing-room  into 
the  chamber,  holding  together  with  both  hands  at 
his  skinny  but  very  straight  neck,  a  dressing-gown 
of  light  silk  with  violet  dots,  in  which  he  had 
enveloped  himself  like  a  bonbon  in  its  paper 
wrapper.  The  most  salient  feature  in  that  heroi- 
comic  countenance  was  a  great  arched  nose  shining 
with  cold  cream,  and  a  keen,  piercing  eye,  too 
youthful,  too  clear  for  the  heavy,  wrinkled  lid  that 
covered  it.  All  of  Jenkins'  patients  had  that 
same  eye. 

Verily  Monpavon  must  have  been  deeply  moved 
to  show  himself  thus  shorn  of  all  prestige.  In 
fact  it  was  with  white  lips  and  in  a  changed  voice 
that  he  now  addressed  the  doctor,  without  the 
affected  stammer,  speaking  rapidly  and  without 
stopping  to  breathe  :  — 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  fellow,  there  's  no  non- 
sense between  us,  is  there?  We  have  met  in  front 
of  the  same  porringer;  but  I  let  you  have  your 
share  and  I  propose  that  you  shall  let  me  have 
mine."     Jenkins'  air  of  amazement  did  not  check 


22  The  Nabob. 

him.  "  Let  it  be  understood  once  for  all.  I 
promised  the  Nabob  that  I  'd  present  him  to  the 
duke  as  I  presented  you  long  ago.  Don't  you 
interfere  in  what  concerns  me  and  me  alone." 

Jenkins,  with  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  protested 
his  innocence.  He  had  never  had  any  such  inten- 
tion. Of  course  Monpavon  was  too  close  a  friend 
of  the  duke  for  any  one  else  to  —  How  could  he 
have  imagined  such  a  thing? 

"  I  imagine  nothing,"  said  the  old  nobleman, 
more  subdued,  but  still  very  cold.  "  I  simply 
wanted  to  have  a  perfectly  frank  explanation  with 
you  on  this  subject." 

The  Irishman  held  out  his  broad  open  palm. 

"  My  dear  marquis,  explanations  are  always 
frank  between  men  of  honor." 

"  Honor  is  a  great  word,  Jenkins.  Let  us  say 
men  of  good-breeding.     That  is  sufficient." 

And  as  that  same  good-breeding,  which  he  put 
forward  as  a  supreme  guide  of  conduct,  suddenly 
reminded  him  of  his  absurd  plight,  the  marquis 
offered  a  finger  for  his  friend's  demonstrative  grasp 
and  passed  hastily  behind  his  curtain,  while  the 
other  took  his  leave,  in  haste  to  continue  his 
round  of  visits. 

What  a  magnificent  practice  this  Jenkins  had, 
to  be  sure  !  Nothing  but  princely  mansions,  halls 
comfortably  heated  and  filled  with  flowers  on  every 
floor,  downy,  silk-lined  alcoves,  wherein  disease 
became  quiet  and  refined,  where  nothing  suggested 
the  brutal  hand  that  tosses  upon  a  bed  of  misery 


Dr.  Jenkins    Patie7tts.  23 

those  who  cease  to  work  only  to  die.  To  tell 
the  truth,  these  clients  of  Dr.  Jenkins  were  not 
patients  at  all.  They  would  not  have  been  received 
at  a  hospital.  As  their  organs  had  not  even 
strength  enough  to  feel  a  shock,  it  was  impossible 
to  find  the  seat  of  their  trouble,  and  the  physi- 
cian leaning  over  them  would  have  listened  in 
vain  for  the  palpitation  of  suffering  in  those  bodies 
which  were  already  inhabited  by  the  inertia  and 
silence  of  death.  They  were  weakened,  exhausted, 
anaemic,  consumed  by  their  absurd  mode  of  life, 
and  yet  so  attached  to  it  that  they  strove  desper- 
ately to  prolong  it.  And  the  Jenkins  Pearls  became 
famous  just  because  of  the  lashing  they  adminis- 
tered to  jaded  constitutions. 

"  Doctor,  I  implore  you,  let  me  go  to  the  ball 
this  evening !  "  a  young  woman  would  say,  as  she 
lay,  utterly  prostrated,  in  her  invahd's  chair,  her 
voice  hardly  more  than  a  breath. 

"  You  shall  go,  my  dear  child." 

And  go  she  would,  and  look  lovelier  than  ever 
before. 

"  Doctor,  at  any  price,  even  if  it 's  the  death 
of  me,  I  must  be  at  the  council  of  ministers 
to-morrow  morning." 

He  would  be  there  and  would  win  new  triumphs 
by  his  eloquence  and  ambitious  diplomacy.  And 
afterward  —  oh  !  afterward,  indeed.  But  no  matter  ! 
to  their  last  day  Jenkins'  patients  went  about, 
showed  themselves,  deceived  the  consuming  sel- 
fishness of  the  multitude.  They  died  on  their 
feet,  like  men  and  women  of  the  world. 


24  The  Nabob. 

After  innumerable  turns  on  the  Chauss^e  d'An- 
tin  and  Champs-Elysees,  after  visiting  all  the 
millionaires  and  titled  personages  in  Faubourg 
Saint-Honore,  the  doctor  drew  up  at  the  corner 
of  Cours-la-Reine  and  Rue  Frangois  I.,  before  a 
house  with  a  swell  front  which  stood  at  the  corner 
of  the  quay,  and  entered  an  apartment  on  the 
ground  floor  which  in  no  wise  resembled  those  he 
had  visited  since  the  morning.  Immediately  upon 
entering,  the  tapestries  that  covered  the  walls,  the 
old  stained  glass  windows  intersecting  with  their 
lead  sashes  the  soft,  many-hued  light,  a  gigantic 
saint  in  carved  wood  facing  a  Japanese  monster 
with  bulging  eyes  and  back  covered  with  highly 
polished  scales,  indicated  the  imaginative  and 
eccentric  taste  of  an  artist.  The  small  servant 
who  opened  the  door  held  in  leash  an  Arabian 
greyhound  larger  than  himself. 

"  Madame  Constance  is  at  mass,"  he  said,  "  and 
mademoiselle  is  in  the  studio,  alone.  We  have 
been  working  since  six  o'clock  this  morning,"  the 
child  added,  with  a  terrible  yawn,  which  the  dog 
caught  on  the  wing,  and  which  caused  him  to 
open  wide  his  red  mouth  with  its  rows  of  sharp 
teeth. 

Jenkins,  whom  we  have  seen  enter  the  private 
apartments  of  the  Minister  of  State  with  such  per- 
fect tranquillity,  trembled  slightly  as  he  raised  the 
portiere  that  hid  the  open  doorway  of  the  studio. 
It  was  a  magnificent  sculptor's  workroom,  the 
rounded  front  being  entirely  of  glass,  with  columns 
at  either  side :  a  large  bay-window  flooded  with 


Dr.  Jenkiiis    Patients.  25 

light  and  at  that  moment  tinged  with  opal  by  the 
mist.  More  ornate  than  the  majority  of  these 
workrooms,  to  which  the  daubs  of  plaster,  the 
modelling  tools,  the  clay  scattered  about  and  the 
splashes  of  water  give  something  of  the  appearance 
of  a  mason's  yard,  this  one  blended  a  little  coquetry 
with  its  artistic  equipment.  Green  plants  in  every 
corner,  a  few  good  pictures  hanging  on  the  bare 
wall,  and  here  and  there  —  on  oak  pedestals  — 
two  or  three  of  the  works  of  Sebastien  Ruys,  whose 
very  last  work,  not  exhibited  until  after  his  death, 
was  covered  with  black  gauze. 

The  mistress  of  the  establishment,  Felicia  Ruys, 
daughter  of  the  famous  sculptor,  and  already  known 
to  fame  herself  by  two  masterpieces,  the  bust  of 
her  father  and  that  of  the  Due  de  Mora,  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  studio,  at  work  modelling  a  figure. 
Dressed  in  a  blue  cloth  riding-habit  with  long 
folds,  a  scarf  of  China  silk  twisted  around  her  neck 
like  a  boy's  cravat,  her  fine,  black  hair,  gathered 
carelessly  on  top  of  her  little  Grecian  head,  Felicia 
was  working  with  extreme  zeal,  which  added  to  her 
beauty  by  the  condensation,  so  to  speak,  the  con- 
centration of  all  her  features  in  a  scrutinizing  and 
satisfied  expression.  But  it  changed  abruptly  on 
the  doctor's  arrival. 

"Ah!  it's  you,  is  it?"  she  said  brusquely,  as  if 
waking  from  a  dream.  "  Did  you  ring?  I  did  not 
hear." 

And  in  the  ennui,  the  weariness  that  suddenly 
overspread  that  lovely  face,  only  the  eyes  retained 
their  expression  and  brilliancy,  eyes  in  which  the 


26  The  Nabob. 

factitious  gleam  of  the  Jenkins  Pearls  was  heightened 
by  a  natural  fierceness. 

Oh  !  how  humble  and  condescending  the  doctor's 
voice  became,  as  he  replied : 

"Your  work  absorbs  you  completely,  does  it  not, 
my  dear  Felicia?  Is  it  something  new  that  you  're 
doing?     I  should  say  that  it  is  very  pretty." 

He  drew  near  to  the  still  formless  sketch  in 
which  a  group  of  two  animals  could  be  vaguely 
distinguished,  one  of  them,  a  greyhound,  flying 
over  the    ground    at  a  truly   extraordinary   pace. 

"The  idea  came  to  me  last  night.  I  began  to 
work  by  lamplight.  My  poor  Kadour  does  n't 
find  it  amusing,"  said  the  girl,  looking  with  a 
caressing  expression  of  affection  at  the  greyhound, 
whose  paws  the  small  servant  was  trying  to  sepa- 
rate in  order  to  force  him  into  the  proper  pose. 

Jenkins  observed  with  a  fatherly  air  that  she  did 
wrong  to  tire  herself  so,  and  added,  taking  her 
wrist  with  ecclesiastical  precautions : 

"  Let  us  see,  I  am  sure  that  you  are  feverish." 

At  the  touch  of  that  hand  Felicia  had  a  feeling 
of  something  very  like  repulsion. 

"  Let  me  alone  —  let  me  alone  —  your  pearls  can 
do  nothing  for  me.  When  I  am  not  working,  I 
am  bored,  bored  to  death,  so  bored  that  I  could 
kill  myself;  my  ideas  are  of  the  color  of  that  thick, 
brackish  water  flowing  yonder.  To  be  just  at  the 
beginning  of  life  and  to  be  disgusted  with  it !  It's 
hard.  I  am  reduced  to  the  point  of  envying  my 
poor  Constance,  who  passes  her  days  in  her  chair, 
never  opening  her  mouth,  but  smiling  all  by  her- 


Dr.  Jenkins    Patie^its,  27 

self  at  her  memories  of  the  past.  I  have  not  even 
that,  not  even  any  pleasant  memories  to  recall. 
I  have  nothing  but  work  —  work  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  she  worked  fiercely,  sometimes 
with  the  tool,  sometimes  with  her  fingers,  which 
she  wiped  from  time  to  time  on  a  little  sponge 
kept  on  the  wooden  frame  on  which  the  group 
stood ;  so  that  her  complaints,  her  lamentations, 
inexplicable  in  a  mouth  of  twenty  years  which  had 
in  repose  the  purity  of  a  Grecian  smile,  seemed  to 
be  uttered  at  random,  and  addressed  to  no  one  in 
particular.  And  yet  Jenkins  seemed  anxious  and 
disturbed,  notwithstanding  the  apparent  interest  he 
displayed  in  the  artist's  work,  or  rather  in  the 
artist  herself,  in  the  queenly  grace  of  that  mere 
girl,  whose  style  of  beauty  seemed  to  have 
predestined   her   to  the  study  of  the  plastic  arts. 

Annoyed  by  that  admiring  glance,  which  she 
felt  like  a  weight,  Felicia  resumed  : 

"  By  the  way,  do  you  know  that  I  saw  your 
Nabob  ?  He  was  pointed  out  to  me  at  the  Opera, 
Friday." 

"Were  you  at  the  Opera,  Friday?" 

"  Yes.     The  duke  sent  me  his  box." 

Jenkins  changed  color. 

"  I  persuaded  Constance  to  go  with  me.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  twenty  years,  since  her  farewell 
performance,  that  she  had  entered  the  Opera.  It 
made  a  great  impression  on  her.  During  the 
ballet  especially,  she  trembled,  she  beamed,  all  her 
former  triumphs  sparkled  in  her  eyes.  How  fortu- 
nate one  is  to  have  such  emotions.     A  perfect  type 


28  The  Nabob. 

of  his  class,  that  Nabob.  You  must  bring  him  to 
see  me.     It  would  amuse  me  to  do  his  head." 

"  What !  why  he  is  frightful !  You  can't  have 
had  a  good  look  at  him." 

"  Indeed  I  did,  on  the  contrary.  He  was  opposite 
us.  That  white  Ethiopian  visage  would  be  superb 
in  marble.  And  not  commonplace,  at  all  events. 
Moreover,  if  he  's  so  ugly  as  all  that,  you  won't  be 
so  unhappy  as  you  were  last  year  when  I  was  doing 
Mora's  bust.  What  a  wicked  face  you  had  at  that 
time,  Jenkins !  " 

"  Not  for  ten  years  of  life,"  muttered  Jenkins  in  a 
threatening  voice,  "  would  I  go  through  those  hours 
again.     But  it  amuses  you  to  see  people  suffer." 

"  You  know  very  well  that  nothing  amuses  me," 
she  said,  shrugging  her  shoulders  with  supreme 
impertinence. 

Then,  without  looking  at  him,  without  another 
word,  she  plunged  into  one  of  those  periods  of 
intense  activity  by  means  of  which  true  artists 
escape  from  themselves  and  all  their  surroundings. 

Jenkins  took  a  few  hurried  steps,  deeply  moved, 
his  lip  swollen  with  avowals  that  dared  not  come 
forth,  and  began  two  or  three  sentences  that  met 
with  no  reply ;  at  last,  feeling  that  he  was  dis- 
missed, he  took  his  hat  and  walked  toward  the 
door. 

"  It 's  understood  then,  is  it?  I  am  to  bring  him 
here?" 

"Who,  pray?" 

"  Why,  the  Nabob.  Only  a  moment  ago  you 
said  yourself —  " 


Dr.  Jenkins   Patients,  29 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  the  strange  creature,  whose 
caprices  were  not  of  long  duration,  "  bring  him  if 
you  choose ;  I  don't  care  particularly  about  it." 

And  her  musical,  listless  voice,  in  which  some- 
thing seemed  to  have  broken,  the  utter  indifference 
of  her  whole  bearing  showed  that  it  was  true,  that 
she  cared  for  nothing  on   earth. 

Jenkins  went  away  in  sore  perplexity,  with 
clouded  brow.  But  as  soon  as  he  had  passed  the 
door  he  resumed  his  smiling,  cordial  manner,  being 
one  of  those  men  who  wear  a  mask  on  the  street. 
The  mist,  still  visible  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Seine,  was  reduced  to  a  few  floating  shreds,  which 
gave  an  air  of  vapory  unsubstantiality  to  the  houses 
on  the  quay,  to  the  steam-boats  of  which  only  the 
paddle-wheels  could  be  seen,  and  to  the  distant 
horizon,  where  the  dome  of  the  Invalides  hovered 
like  a  gilded  balloon,  whose  netting  shed  rays  of 
light.  The  increasing  warmth,  the  activity  in  the 
quarter  indicated  that  noon  was  not  far  away  and 
that  it  would  soon  be  announced  by  the  ringing  of 
all  the  bells. 

Before  calling  upon  the  Nabob,  however,  Jenkins 
had  another  call  to  make.  But  it  seemed  to  be 
a  great  nuisance  to  him.  However,  as  he  had 
promised  !  So  he  said,  with  sudden  decision,  as 
he  jumped  into  the  carriage : 

"  68  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand,  aux  Ternes." 

Joe,  the  coachman,  was  scandaHzed  and  made 
his  master  repeat  the  address;  even  the  horse 
showed  some  little  hesitation,  as  if  the  valuable 
beast  and  the  spotless  new  livery  were  disgusted 


30  The  Nabob. 

at  having  to  visit  a  faubourg  so  far  away,  outside 
the  restricted  but  brilliant  circle  in  which  their 
master's  patients  were  grouped  together.  They 
arrived,  however,  without  hindrance,  at  the  end 
of  an  unfinished  provincial  street,  and  at  the  last 
of  its  houses,  a  five-story  building,  which  the 
street  seemed  to  have  sent  out  to  reconnoitre  and 
ascertain  if  it  could  safely  continue  in  that  direc- 
tion, isolated  as  it  was  between  desolate  tracts  of 
land  awaiting  prospective  buildings  or  filled  with 
the  materials  of  demolished  structures,  with  blocks 
of  stone,  old  blinds  with  no  rooms  to  shelter, 
boards  with  hanging  hinges,  a  vast  boneyard  of 
a  whole  demolished  quarter. 

Innumerable  signs  swayed  in  the  wind  over  the 
door,  which  was  adorned  with  a  large  case  of 
photographs,  white  with  dust,  before  which  Jen- 
kins paused  for  a  moment.  Had  the  illustrious 
physician  come  so  far  to  have  his  picture  taken  ? 
One  might  have  thought  so  from  the  interest 
which  detained  him  in  front  of  that  case,  contain- 
ing fifteen  or  twenty  photographs  representing 
the  same  family  in  different  groups  and  attitudes 
and  with  different  expressions :  an  old  gentleman 
with  his  chin  supported  by  a  high  white  stock, 
and  a  leather  satchel  under  his  arm,  surrounded 
by  a  bevy  of  maidens  with  their  hair  arranged  in 
braids  or  in  curls.  Sometimes  the  old  gentleman 
had  sat  with  only  two  of  his  daughters ;  or  per- 
haps one  of  those  pretty,  graceful  figures  appeared 
alone,  her  elbow  resting  on  a  truncated  column, 
her  head  bending  over  a  book,  in  a  natural  and 


Dr.  Je7ikins   Patients.  31 

unstudied  pose.  But  it  was  always  the  same  mo- 
tive with  variations,  and  there  was  no  other  male 
figure  in  the  case  but  the  old  gentleman  in  the 
white  cravat,  and  no  other  female  figures  than 
those  of  his  numerous  daughters. 

"  Studios  on  the  fifth  floor,"  said  a  sign  over  the 
case.  Jenkins  sighed,  measured  with  his  eye  the 
distance  from  the  ground  to  the  little  balcony  up 
among  the  clouds ;  then  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
enter.  In  the  hall  he  passed  a  white  cravat  and 
a  majestic  leather  satchel,  evidently  the  old  gentle- 
man of  the  show-case.  Upon  being  questioned, 
he  replied  that  M.  Maranne  did  in  fact  live  on  the 
fifth  floor.  "  But,"  he  added  with  an  engaging 
smile,  "  the  floors  are  not  high."  With  that  en- 
couragement the  Irishman  started  up  an  entirely 
new  and  narrow  staircase,  with  landings  no  larger 
than  a  stair,  a  single  door  on  each  floor  and 
windows  which  afforded  glimpses  of  a  melancholy 
paved  courtyard  and  other  stairways,  all  empty : 
one  of  those  horrible  modern  houses,  built  by  the 
dozen  by  contractors  without  a  sou,  their  greatest 
disadvantage  consisting  in  the  thinness  of  the  par- 
titions, which  forces  all  the  lodgers  to  live  together 
as  in  a  Fourierite  community.  For  the  moment 
that  disadvantage  was  not  of  serious  consequence, 
only  the  fourth  and  fifth  floors  being  occupied, 
as  if  the  tenants  had  fallen  from  the  sky. 

On  the  fourth,  behind  a  door  bearing  a  copper 
plate  with  the  words:  M.  JOYEUSE,  Expert  in 
Handwriting,  the  doctor  heard  the  sound  of  fresh, 
young  laughter  and  conversation  and  active  foot' 


32  The  Nabob. 

steps,  which  accompanied  him  to  the  door  of  the 
photographic  establishment  above. 

These  Httle  industries,  perching  in  out-of-the- 
way  corners,  and  seeming  to  have  no  communica- 
tion with  the  outer  world,  are  one  of  the  surprises 
of  Paris.  We  wonder  how  people  live  who  take 
to  them  for  a  living.  What  scrupulous  providence, 
for  instance,  could  send  customers  to  a  photog- 
rapher on  a  fifth  floor  among  waste  lands,  at  the 
far  end  of  Rue  Ferdinand,  or  documents  for  exam- 
ination to  the  expert  on  the  floor  below.  Jenkins, 
as  he  made  that  reflection,  smiled  a  pitying  smile, 
then  entered  without  ceremony  as  he  was  invited 
to  do  by  this  inscription :  "  Walk  in  without 
knocking."  Alas  !  the  permission  was  not  abused. 
—  A  tall  youth  in  spectacles,  who  was  writing 
at  a  small  table,  fhis  legs  wrapped  in  a  travel- 
ing shawl,  rose  hurriedly  to  greet  the  visitor, 
whom  his  short-sightedness  prevented  him  from 
recognizing. 

"  Good-morning,  Andre,"  said  the  doctor,  ex- 
tending his  hand  cordially. 

"  Monsieur  Jenkins  !  " 

*'  I  am  a  good  fellow  as  always,  you  see.  Your 
conduct  to  us,  your  persistence  in  living  apart 
from  your  relatives,  commended  to  my  dignity 
the  utmost  reserve  in  dealing  with  you ;  but  your 
mother  wept.     And  here  I  am." 

As  he  was  speaking,  he  glanced  about  the  poor 
little  studio,  where  the  bare  walls,  the  scanty  fur- 
niture the  brand-new  photographic  apparatus,  the 
little   fireplace   a   la  prussieufie,  also  new,  which 


Dr.  Jenkins    Patients.  33 

had  never  seen  a  fire,  were  disastrously  apparent 
in  the  bright  Hght  that  fell  from  the  glass  roof. 
The  drawn  features  and  straggling  beard  of  the 
young  man,  whose  very  light  eyes,  high,  narrow 
forehead,  and  long  fair  hair  thrown  back  in  dis- 
order gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  visionary,  all 
were  accentuated  in  the  uncompromising  light; 
and  so  was  the  dogged  will  expressed  in  that  limpid 
glance  which  met  Jenkins'  eye  coldly,  and  offered 
in  anticipation  an  unconquerable  opposition  to  all 
his  arguments,  all  his  protestations. 

But  the  excellent  Jenkins  pretended  not  to 
notice  it. 

"  You  know  how  it  is,  my  dear  Andre.  From 
the  day  that  I  married  your  mother,  I  have  looked 
upon  you  as  my  son.  I  expected  to  leave  you 
my  office,  my  practice,  to  place  your  foot  in  a 
golden  stirrup,  and  I  was  overjoyed  to  see  you 
follow  a  career  devoted  to  the  welfare  of  mankind. 
Suddenly,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  with- 
out a  thought  for  the  effect  such  a  rupture  might 
produce  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  you  cut  loose 
from  us,  you  dropped  your  studies  and  renounced 
your  future  prospects,  to  embark  in  some  degrad- 
ing mode  of  life,  to  adopt  an  absurd  trade,  the 
refuge  and  the  pretext  of  all  those  who  are  shut 
out  from  the  society  to  which  they  belong." 

"  I  am  working  at  this  trade  for  a  living.  It 's 
a  means  of  earning  my  bread  while  I  wait." 

"  Wait  for  what?  —  literary  renown?  " 

He  glanced  contemptuously  at  the  papers  scat- 
tered over  the  table, 

VOL.  I.  —  3 


34  The  Nabob. 

"  But  all  this  does  not  touch  the  question ;  this 
is  what  I  came  here  to  say  to  you  :  an  opportunity 
is  offered  you,  a  door  thrown  wide  open  to  the 
future.  The  Work  of  Bethlehem  is  founded.  The 
noblest  of  my  humanitarian  dreams  has  taken 
shape.  We  have  bought  a  magnificent  villa  at 
Nanterre  in  which  to  install  our  first  branch.  The 
superintendence,  the  management  of  that  estab- 
lishment is  what  it  has  occurred  to  me  to  offer  to 
you,  as  to  another  myself  A  princely  house  to  live 
in,  the  salary  of  a  major-general,  and  the  satisfac- 
tion of  rendering  a  service  to  the  great  human 
family.  Say  the  word  and  I  will  take  you 
to  see  the  Nabob,  the  noble-hearted  man  who 
pays  the  expenses  of  our  undertaking.  Do  you 
accept?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  author,  so  abruptly  that  Jenkins 
was  disconcerted. 

"  That 's  it.  I  expected  a  refusal  when  I  came 
here,  but  I  came  none  the  less.  I  took  for  my 
motto,  '  Do  what  is  right,  without  hope.'  And  I 
am  faithful  to  my  motto.  So,  it 's  understood,  is 
it  —  that  you  prefer  a  life  dependent  on  chance, 
without  prospects  and  without  dignity,  to  the 
honorable,  dignified,  useful  life  that  I  offer  you?" 

Andre  made  no  reply;  but  his  silence  spoke  for 
him. 

"Beware  —  you  know  to  what  this  decision  of 
yours  will  lead,  a  final  estrangement;  but  you 
have  always  desired  it.  I  need  not  tell  you,"  con- 
tinued Jenkins,  "  that  to  break  with  me  is  to  break 
with  your  mother  also.     She  and  I  are  one." 


Dr.  Jenkins    Patients.  35 

The  young  man  turned  pale,  hesitated  a  second, 
then  said  with  an  efifort : 

"  If  my  mother  cares  to  come  and  see  me  here, 
I  shall  certainly  be  very  happy  —  but  my  determi- 
nation to  remain  apart  from  you,  to  have  nothing 
in  common  with  you,  is  irrevocable." 

"  At  least,  you  will  tell  me  why  ?  " 

He  made  a  gesture  signifying,  "  no,"  that  he 
would  not  tell  him. 

For  the  moment  the  Irishman  was  really  angry. 
His  whole  face  assumed  a  savage,  cunning  expres- 
sion which  would  have  greatly  surprised  those 
who  knew  only  the  good-humored,  open-hearted 
Jenkins ;  but  he  was  careful  to  go  no  farther  in 
the  direction  of  an  explanation,  which  he  dreaded 
perhaps  no  less  than  he  desired  it. 

"  Adieu,"  he  said  from  the  doorway,  half  turning 
his  head.     "  Never  apply  to  us." 

"Never,"  replied  his  stepson  in  a  firm  voice. 

This  time,  when  the  doctor  said  to  Joe  :  "  Place 
Vendome,"  the  horse,  as  if  he  understood  that  they 
were  going  to  call  on  the  Nabob,  proudly  shook 
his  shining  curb,  and  the  coupe  drove  away  at 
full  speed,  transforming  the  hub  of  each  of  its 
wheels  into  a  gleaming  sun.  "To  come  such  a 
distance  to  meet  with  such  a  reception !  One  of 
the  celebrities  of  the  day  treated  so  by  that 
Bohemian  !  This  comes  of  trying  to  do  good  !  " 
Jenkins  vented  his  wrath  in  a  long  monologue  in 
that  vein;  then  suddenly  exclaimed  with  a  shrug: 
"  Oh !  pshaw ! "  And  such  traces  of  care  as 
remained  on  his  brow  soon  vanished  on  the  pave- 


36  The  Nabob. 

ment  of  Place  Vendome.  On  all  sides  the  clocks 
were  striking  twelve  in  the  sunshine.  Emerging 
from  her  curtain  of  mist,  fashionable  Paris,  awake 
and  on  her  feet,  was  beginning  her  day  of  giddy 
pleasure.  The  shop-windows  on  Rue  de  la  Paix 
shone  resplendent.  The  mansions  on  the  square 
seemed  to  be  drawn  up  proudly  in  line  for  the 
afternoon  receptions ;  and,  at  the  end  of  Rue 
Castiglione  with  its  white  arcades,  the  Tuileries,  in 
the  glorious  sunlight  of  winter,  marshalled  its 
shivering  statues,  pink  with  cold,  among  the  leaf- 
less quincunxes. 


A  Breakfast  on  Place   Vendbme.      37 


II. 

A   BREAKFAST   ON   PLACE  VEND^ME. 

There  were  hardly  more  than  a  score  of  persons 
that  morning  in  the  Nabob's  dining-room,  a  din- 
ing-room finished  in  carved  oak,  suppHed  only  the 
day  before  from  the  establishment  of  some  great 
house-furnisher,  who  furnished  at  the  same  time 
the  four  salons  which  could  be  seen,  one  beyond 
the  other,  through  an  open  door:  the  hangings, 
the  objects  of  art,  the  chandeliers,  even  the  plate 
displayed  on  the  sideboards,  even  the  servants  who 
served  the  breakfast.  It  was  the  perfect  type  of 
the  establishment  improvised,  immediately  upon 
alighting  from  the  railway  train,  by  a  parvenu  of 
colossal  wealth,  in  great  haste  to  enjoy  himself. 
Although  there  was  no  sign  of  a  woman's  dress 
about  the  table,  no  bit  of  light  and  airy  material  to 
enliven  the  scene,  it  was  by  no  means  monotonous, 
thanks  to  the  incongruity,  the  nondescript  char- 
acter of  the  guests,  gathered  together  from  all 
ranks  of  society,  specimens  of  mankind  culled 
from  every  race  in  France,  in  Europe,  in  the  whole 
world,  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  social  scale. 
First  of  all,  the  master  of  the  house,  a  sort  of  giant 


38  The  Nabob. 

—  sunburned,  swarthy,  with  his  head  between  his 
shoulders  —  to  whom  his  short  nose,  lost  in  the 
puffiness  of  the  face,  his  woolly  hair  massed  like  an 
Astrakhan  cap  over  a  low,  headstrong  forehead,  his 
bristling  eyebrows  with  eyes  like  a  wild  cat's  in 
ambush,  gave  the  ferocious  aspect  of  a  Kalmuk,  of 
a  savage  on  the  frontiers  of  civilization,  who  lived 
by  war  and  marauding.  Luckily  the  lower  part 
of  the  face,  the  thick,  double  lips  which  parted 
readily  in  a  fascinating,  good-humored  smile, 
tempered  with  a  sort  of  Saint  Vincent  de  Paul 
expression  that  uncouth  ugliness,  that  original 
countenance,  so  original  that  it  forgot  to  be  com- 
monplace. But  his  inferior  extraction  betrayed  it- 
self in  another  direction  by  his  voice,  the  voice  of 
a  Rhone  boatman,  hoarse  and  indistinct,  in  which 
the  southern  accent  became  rather  coarse  than 
harsh,  and  by  two  broad,  short  hands,  with  hairy 
fingers,  square  at  the  ends  and  with  almost  no 
nails,  which,  as  they  rested  on  the  white  table 
cloth,  spoke  of  their  past  with  embarrassing  elo- 
quence. Opposite  the  host,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  at  which  he  was  a  regular  guest,  was  the 
Marquis  de  Monpavon,  but  a  Monpavon  who  in  no 
wise  resembled  the  mottled  spectre  whom  we  saw 
in  the  last  chapter;  a  man  of  superb  physique,  in 
the  prime  of  life,  with  a  long,  majestic  nose,  the 
haughty  bearing  of  a  great  nobleman,  displaying  a 
vast  breastplate  of  spotless  linen,  which  cracked 
under  the  continuous  efforts  of  the  chest  to  bend 
forward,  and  swelled  out  every  time  with  a  noise 
like  that  made  by  a  turkey  gobbling,  or  a  peacock 


A  Breakfast  on  Place    Vendbme.       39 

spreading  his  tail.  His  name  Monpavon  was  well 
suited  to  hini.^ 

Belonging  to  a  great  family,  with  wealthy  kin- 
dred, the  Due  de  Mora's  friendship  had  procured 
for  him  a  receiver-generalship  of  the  first  class. 
Unfortunately  his  health  had  not  permitted  him  to 
retain  that  fine  berth  —  well-informed  persons  said 
that  his  health  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  —  and 
he  had  been  living  in  Paris  for  a  year  past,  waiting 
until  he  should  be  cured,  he  said,  to  return  to  his 
post.  The  same  persons  asserted  that  he  would 
never  find  it  again,  and  that,  were  it  not  for  the 
patronage  of  certain  exalted  personages —  Be  that 
as  it  may,  he  was  the  important  guest  at  the 
breakfast;  one  could  see  that  by  the  way  in  which 
the  servants  waited  upon  him,  by  the  way  in  which 
the  Nabob  consulted  him,  calling  him  "  Monsieur 
le  Marquis,"  as  they  do  at  the  Comedie  Fran^aise, 
less  from  humility  than  from  pride  because  of  the 
honor  that  was  reflected  on  himself  Filled  with 
disdain  for  his  fellow-guests.  Monsieur  le  Marquis 
talked  little,  but  with  a  very  lofty  manner,  as  if  he 
were  obliged  to  stoop  to  those  persons  whom  he 
honored  with  his  conversation.  From  time  to 
time  he  tossed  at  the  Nabob,  across  the  table,  sen- 
tences that  were  enigmatical  to  everybody. 

"  I  saw  the  duke  yesterday.  He  talked  a  good 
deal  about  you  in  connection  with  that  matter  of 
—  you  know,  What  's-his-name,  Thingumbob  — 
Who  is  the  man?  " 

"Really!     He   talked  about   me?"      And   the 

1  Paon,  peacock  —  from  L,a.tin />avo,  J>avoms. 


40  The  Nabob. 

honest  Nabob,  swelling  with  pride,  would  look 
about  him,  nodding  his  head  in  a  most  laughable 
way,  or  would  assume  the  meditative  air  of  a  pious 
woman  when  she  hears  the  name  of  Our  Lord. 

"  His  Excellency  would  be  pleased  to  have  you 
go  into  the  — ps — ps — ps —  the  thing." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"  Ask  the  governor  —  he  heard  it  as  well  as  I." 

The  person  referred  to  as  the  governor,  Paga- 
netti  by  name,  was  an  energetic,  gesticulatory 
little  man,  tiresome  to  watch,  his  face  assumed  so 
many  different  expressions  in  a  minute.  He  was 
manager  of  the  Caisse  Territoriale  of  Corsica,  a 
vast  financial  enterprise,  and  was  present  in  that 
house  for  the  first  time,  brought  by  Monpavon ; 
he  also  occupied  a  place  of  honor.  On  the 
Nabob's  other  side  was  an  old  man,  buttoned  to 
the  chin  in  a  frock-coat  without  lapels  and  with  a 
standing  collar,  like  an  oriental  tunic,  with  a  face 
marred  by  innumerable  little  gashes,  and  a  white 
moustache  trimmed  in  military  fashion.  It  was 
Brahim  Bey,  the  most  gallant  officer  of  the  regency 
of  Tunis,  aide-de-camp  to  the  former  bey,  who 
made  Jansoulet's  fortune.  This  warrior's  glorious 
exploits  were  written  in  wrinkles,  in  the  scars  of 
debauchery,  on  his  lower  lip  which  hung  down 
helplessly  as  if  the  spring  were  broken,  and  in 
his  inflamed,  red  eyes,  devoid  of  lashes.  His  was 
one  of  the  faces  we  see  in  the  felon's  dock  in 
cases  that  are  tried  behind  closed  doors.  The 
other  guests  had  seated  themselves  pell-mell,  as 
they   arrived,    or    beside    such    acquaintances    as 


A  Breakfast  on  Place   Vendbme.      41 

they  chanced  to  meet,  for  the  house  was  open  to 
everybody,  and  covers  were  laid  for  thirty  every 
morning. 

There  was  the  manager  of  the  theatre  in  which 
the  Nabob  was  a  sleeping  partner,  —  Cardailhac, 
almost  as  renowned  for  his  wit  as  for  his  failures, 
that  wonderful  carver,  who  would  prepare  one  of 
his  bons  mots  as  he  detached  the  limbs  of  a 
partridge,  and  deposit  it  with  a  wing  in  the  plate 
that  was  handed  him.  He  was  a  sculptor  rather 
than  an  improvisateur,  and  the  new  way  of  serving 
meats,  having  them  carved  beforehand  in  the 
Russian  fashion,  had  been  fatal  to  him  by  depriv- 
ing him  of  all  excuse  for  a  preparatory  silence. 
So  it  was  generally  said  that  he  was  failing.  He 
was  a  thorough  Parisian,  a  dandy  to  his  fingers' 
ends,  and  as  he  himself  boasted,  "  not  full  to 
bursting  with  superstition,"  which  fact  enabled 
him  to  give  some  very  piquant  details  concerning 
the  women  in  his  theatrical  company  to  Brahim 
Bey,  who  listened  to  him  as  one  turns  the  pages 
of  an  obscene  book,  and  to  talk  theology  to  his 
nearest  neighbor,  a  young  priest,  cure  of  some  little 
Southern  village,  a  thin,  gaunt  fellow,  with  a  com- 
plexion as  dark  as  his  cassock,  with  glowing 
cheek-bones,  pointed  nose,  all  the  characteristics 
of  an  ambitious  man,  who  said  to  Cardailhac,  in  a 
very  loud  voice,  in  a  tone  of  condescension,  of 
priestly  authority: 

"  We  are  very  well  satisfied  with  Monsieur 
Guizot,  He  is  doing  well,  very  well  —  it 's  a  vic- 
tory for  the  Church." 


42  The  Nabob. 

Beside  that  pontiff  with  the  starched  band,  old 
Schwalbach,  the  famous  dealer  in  pictures,  dis- 
played his  prophet's  beard,  yellow  in  spots  like  a 
dirty  fleece,  his  three  mouldy-looking  waistcoats 
and  all  the  slovenly,  careless  attire  which  people 
forgave  him  in  the  name  of  art,  and  because  he 
had  the  good  taste  to  have  in  his  employ,  at  a 
time  when  the  mania  for  galleries  kept  millions 
of  money  in  circulation,  the  one  man  who  was 
most  expert  in  negotiating  those  vainglorious 
transactions.  Schwalbach  did  not  talk,  contenting 
himself  with  staring  about  through  his  enormous 
lens-shaped  monocle,  and  smiling  in  his  beard  at 
the  extraordinary  juxtapositions  to  be  observed 
at  that  table,  which  stood  alone  in  all  the  world. 
For  instance  Monpavon  had  very  near  him  —  and 
you  should  have  seen  how  the  disdainful  curve  of 
his  nose  was  accentuated  at  every  glance  in  his 
direction  —  Garrigou  the  singer,  a  countryman 
of  Jansoulet,  distinguished  as  a  ventriloquist,  who 
sang  Figaro  in  the  patois  of  the  South  and  had  not 
his  like  for  imitating  animals.  A  little  farther 
on,  Cabassu,  another  fellow-countryman,  a  short, 
thick-set  man,  with  a  bull-neck,  a  biceps  worthy 
of  Michel  Angelo,  who  resembled  equally  a  Mar- 
seillais  hair-dresser  and  the  Hercules  at  a  country 
fair,  a  masseur,  pedicurist,  manicurist  and  some- 
thing of  a  dentist,  rested  both  elbows  on  the  table 
with  the  assurance  of  a  quack  whom  one  receives 
in  the  morning  and  who  knows  the  petty  weak- 
nesses, the  private  miseries  of  the  house  in  which 
he  happens  to  be.     M.  Bompain  completed  that 


A  Breakfast  on  Place   Vendbme.      43 

procession  of  subalterns,  all  classified  with  refer- 
ence to  some  one  specialty.  Bompain,  the  secre- 
tary, the  steward,  the  man  of  confidence,  through 
whose  hands  all  the  business  of  the  establishment 
passed  ;  and  a  single  glance  at  that  stupidly  solemn 
face,  that  vague  expression,  that  Turkish  fez  poised 
awkwardly  on  that  village  schoolmaster's  head, 
sufficed  to  convince  one  what  manner  of  man  he 
was  to  whom  interests  like  the  Nabob's  had  been 
entrusted. 

Lastly,  to  fill  the  gaps  between  the  figures  we 
have  sketched,  Turks  of  every  variety  !  Tunisians, 
Moors,  Egyptians,  Levantines;  and,  mingled  with 
that  exotic  element,  a  whole  multicolored  Parisian 
Bohemia  of  decayed  gentlemen,  squinting  trades- 
men, penniless  journalists,  inventors  of  strange 
objects,  men  from  the  South  landed  in  Paris  with- 
out a  sou  —  all  the  tempest-tossed  vessels  to  be 
revictualled,  all  the  flocks  of  birds  whirling  about 
in  the  darkness,  that  were  attracted  by  that  great 
fortune  as  by  the  light  of  a  lighthouse.  The  Nabob 
received  that  motley  crew  at  his  table  through  kind- 
ness of  heart,  generosity,  weakness,  and  entire  lack 
of  dignity,  combined  with  absolute  ignorance,  and 
partly  as  a  result  of  the  same  exile's  melancholy, 
the  same  need  of  expansion  that  led  him  to  receive, 
in  his  magnificent  palace  on  the  Bardo  in  Tunis, 
everybody  who  landed  from  France,  from  the 
petty  tradesman  and  exporter  of  small  wares,  to  the 
famous  pianist  on  a  tour  and  the  consul-general. 

Listening  to  those  different  voices,  those  foreign 
accents,  incisive  or  stammering,  glancing  at  those 


44  The  Nabob. 

varying  types  of  countenance,  some  uncivilized, 
passionate,  unrefined,  others  over-civilized,  faded, 
of  the  type  that  haunts  the  boulevards,  over-ripe 
as  it  were,  and  observing  the  same  varieties  in  the 
corps  of  servants,  where  "  flunkeys,"  taken  the  day 
before  from  some  office,  insolent  fellows,  with  the 
heads  of  dentists  or  bath-attendants,  bustled  about 
among  the  motionless  Ethiopians,  who  shone  like 
black  marble  torch-holders,  —  it  was  impossible  to 
say  exactly  where  you  were ;  at  all  events,  you 
would  never  have  believed  that  you  were  on  Place 
Vendome,  at  the  very  heart  and  centre  of  the  life  of 
our  modern  Paris.  On  the  table  there  was  a  simi- 
lar outlandish  collection  of  foreign  dishes,  sauces 
with  saffron  or  anchovies,  elaborately  spiced  Turk- 
ish delicacies,  chickens  with  fried  almonds  ;  all  this, 
taken  in  conjunction  with  the  commonplace  decora- 
tions of  the  room,  the  gilded  wainscotings  and  the 
shrill  jangle  of  the  new  bells,  gave  one  the  impres- 
sion of  a  table-d'hote  in  some  great  hotel  in  Smyrna 
or  Calcutta,  or  of  the  gorgeous  saloon  of  a  trans- 
Atlantic  liner,  the  Percire  or  the  Sinai. 

It  would  seem  that  such  a  variety  of  guests  —  I 
had  almost  said  of  passengers  —  would  make  the 
repast  animated  and  noisy.  Far  from  it.  They  all 
ate  nervously,  in  silence,  watching  one  another  out 
of  the  corner  of  the  eye ;  and  even  the  most  worldly, 
those  who  seemed  most  at  ease,  had  in  their  eyes 
the  wandering,  distressed  expression  indicating  a 
persistent  thought,  a  feverish  anxiety  which  caused 
them  to  speak  without  answering,  to  listen  without 
understanding  a  word  of  what  was  said. 


A  Breakfast  on  Place    Vendbme.      45 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  dining-room  was  thrown 
open. 

"  Ah  !  there  's  Jenkins,"  exclaimed  the  Nabob, 
joyfully.  "  Hail,  doctor,  hail !  How  are  you,  my 
boy?  " 

A  circular  smile,  a  vigorous  handshake  for  the 
host,  and  Jenkins  took  his  seat  opposite  him,  beside 
Monpavon  and  in  front  of  a  plate  which  a  servant 
brought  in  hot  haste,  exactly  as  at  a  table-d'hdte. 
Amid  those  preoccupied,  feverish  faces,  that  one 
presented  a  striking  contrast  with  its  good-humor, 
its  expansive  smile,  and  the  loquacious,  flattering 
affability  which  makes  the  Irish  to  a  certain  extent 
the  Gascons  of  Great  Britain.  And  what  a  robust 
appetite  !  with  what  energy,  what  liberty  of  con- 
science, he  managed  his  double  row  of  white  teeth, 
talking  all  the  while. 

"  Well,  Jansoulet,  did  you  read  it?" 

"  Read  what,  pray?  " 

"What!  don't  you  know?  Haven't  you  read 
what  the  Messager  said  about  you  this  morning?  " 

Beneath  the  thick  tan  on  his  cheeks  the  Nabob 
blushed  like  a  child,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  with 
delight  as  he  replied : 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  The  Messager  said  something 
about  me?  " 

"  Two  whole  columns.  How  is  it  that  Moessard 
did  n't  show  it  to  you?  " 

**  Oh  !  "  said  Moessard  modestly,  "  it  was  n't 
worth  the  trouble." 

He  was  a  journalist  in  a  small  way,  fair-haired 
and  spruce,  a  pretty  fellow  enough,  but  with  a  face 


46  The  Nabob. 

marked  by  the  faded  look  peculiar  to  waiters  at 
all-night  restaurants,  actors  and  prostitutes,  made 
up  of  conventional  grimaces  and  the  sallow  reflec- 
tion of  the  gas.  He  was  reputed  to  be  the  plighted 
lover  of  an  exiled  queen  of  very  easy  virtue.  That 
rumor  was  whispered  about  wherever  he  went,  and 
gave  him  an  envied  and  most  contemptible  promi- 
nence in  his  circle. 

Jansoulet  insisted  upon  reading  the  article,  being 
impatient  to  hear  what  was  said  of  him.  Unfor- 
tunately Jenkins  had  left  his  copy  at  the  duke's. 

"  Let  some  one  go  at  once  and  get  me  a  Messa- 
ger"  said  the  Nabob  to  the  servant  behind  his 
chair, 

Moessard  interposed : 

"  That  is  n't  necessary ;  I  must  have  the  thing 
about  me." 

And  with  the  free  and  easy  manner  of  the  tap- 
room habitue,  of  the  reporter  who  scrawls  his  notes 
as  he  sits  in  front  of  his  mug  of  beer,  the  journalist 
produced  a  pocketbook  stuffed  with  memoranda, 
stamped  papers,  newspaper  clippings,  notes  on 
glossy  paper  with  crests  —  which  he  scattered  over 
the  table,  pushing  his  plate  away,  to  look  for  the 
proof  of  his  article. 

"  Here  it  is."  He  passed  it  to  Jansoulet;  but 
Jenkins  cried  out: 

"  No,  no,  read  it  aloud." 

As  the  whole  party  echoed  the  demand,  Moes- 
sard took  back  his  proof  and  began  to  read  aloud 
the  Work  of  Bethlehem  and  M.  Bernard 
Jansoulet,  a  long  deliverance  in  favor  of  artificial 


A  Breakfast  oii  Place    Vendbme.      47 

nursing,  written  from  Jenkins'  notes,  which  were 
recognizable  by  certain  grandiloquent  phrases  of 
the  sort  that  the  Irishman  afifected :  "  the  long 
martyrology  of  infancy  —  the  venality  of  the  breast 
— the  goat,  the  beneficent  nurse,"  —  and  conclud- 
ing, after  a  turgid  description  of  the  magnificent 
establishment  at  Nanterre,  with  a  eulogy  of  Jen- 
kins and  the  glorification  of  Jansoulet:  "  O  Ber- 
nard Jansoulet,  benefactor  of  infancy  !  " 

You  should  have  seen  the  annoyed,  scandalized 
faces  of  the  guests.  What  a  schemer  that  Moessard 
was !  What  impudent  sycophancy !  And  the 
same  envious,  disdainful  smile  distorted  every 
mouth.  The  devil  of  it  was  that  they  were  forced 
to  applaud,  to  appear  enchanted,  as  their  host's 
sense  of  smell  was  not  surfeited  by  the  odor  of 
incense,  and  as  he  took  everything  very  seriously, 
both  the  article  and  the  applause  that  it  called 
forth.  His  broad  face  beamed  during  the  reading. 
Many  and  many  a  time,  far  away  in  Africa,  he  had 
dreamed  of  being  thus  belauded  in  the  Parisian 
papers,  of  becoming  a  person  of  some  consequence 
in  that  society,  the  first  of  all  societies,  upon  which 
the  whole  world  has  its  eyes  fixed  as  upon  a 
beacon-light.  Now  that  dream  was  fulfilled.  He 
gazed  at  all  those  men  around  his  table,  at  that 
sumptuous  dessert,  at  that  wainscoted  dining-room, 
certainly  as  high  as  the  church  in  his  native  village  ; 
he  listened  to  the  dull  roar  of  Paris,  rumbling  and 
tramping  beneath  his  windows,  with  the  unspoken 
thought  that  he  was  about  to  become  a  great  wheel 
in  that  ever-active,  complicated  mechanism.     And 


48  The  Nabob. 

thereupon,  while  he  sat,  enjoying  the  sense  of  well- 
being  that  follows  a  substantial  meal,  between  the 
lines  of  that  triumphant  apology  he  evoked,  by 
way  of  contrast,  the  panorama  of  his  own  life,  his 
wretched  childhood,  his  haphazard  youth,  no  less 
distressing  to  recall,  the  days  without  food,  the 
nights  without  a  place  to  lay  his  head.  And  sud- 
denly, when  the  reading  was  at  an  end,  in  the  midst 
of  a  veritable  overflow  of  joy,  of  one  of  those  out- 
bursts of  Southern  effusiveness  which  compel  one 
to  think  aloud,  he  cried,  protruding  his  thick  lips 
toward  the  guests  in  his  genial  smile : 

"  Ah !  my  friends,  my  dear  friends,  if  you  knew 
how  happy  I  am,  how  proud  I  feel !  " 

It  was  barely  six  weeks  since  he  landed  in 
France.  With  the  exception  of  two  or  three  com- 
patriots, he  had  known  these  men  whom  he  called 
his  friends  hardly  more  than  a  day,  and  only  from 
having  loaned  them  money.  Wherefore  that  sud- 
den expansiveness  seemed  decidedly  strange  ;  but 
Jansoulet,  too  deeply  moved  to  notice  anything, 
continued : 

"  After  what  I  have  just  heard,  when  I  see  my- 
self here  in  this  great  city  of  Paris,  surrounded  by 
all  the  illustrious  names  and  distinguished  minds 
within  its  limits,  and  then  recall  my  father's  ped- 
dler's stall !  For  I  was  born  in  a  peddler's  stall. 
My  father  sold  old  iron  at  a  street  corner  in  Bourg- 
Saint-Andeol !  It  was  as  much  as  ever  if  we  had 
bread  to  eat  every  day,  and  stew  every  Sunday. 
Ask  Cabassu.  He  knew  me  in  those  days.  He 
can  tell  you  if  I   am   lying.      Oh !    yes,  I   have 


A  Breakfast  on  Place   Vendome.      49 

known  what  poverty  is."  He  raised  his  head  in  an 
outburst  of  pride,  breathing  in  the  odor  of  truffles 
with  which  the  heavy  atmosphere  was  impregnated. 
"  I  have  known  poverty,  genuine  poverty  too, 
and  for  a  long  time.  I  have  been  cold,  I  have 
been  hungry,  and  horribly  hungry,  you  know,  the 
kind  of  hunger  that  makes  you  stupid,  that  twists 
your  stomach,  makes  your  head  go  round,  and 
prevents  you  from  seeing,  just  as  if  some  one  had 
dug  out  the  inside  of  your  eyes  with  an  oyster- 
knife.  I  have  passed  whole  days  in  bed  for  lack 
of  a  coat  to  wear ;  lucky  when  I  had  a  bed,  which 
I  sometimes  had  n't.  I  have  tried  to  earn  my 
bread  at  every  trade ;  and  the  bread  cost  me  so 
much  suffering,  it  was  so  hard  and  tough  that  I 
still  have  the  bitter,  mouldy  taste  of  it  in  my 
mouth.  And  that 's  the  way  it  was  till  I  was  thirty 
years  old.  Yes,  my  friends,  at  thirty  —  and  I  'm 
not  fifty  yet  —  I  was  still  a  beggar,  without  a  sou, 
with  no  future,  with  my  heart  full  of  remorse  for 
my  poor  mother  who  was  dying  of  hunger  in  her 
hovel  down  in  the  provinces,  and  to  whom  I  could 
give  nothing." 

The  faces  of  the  people  who  surrounded  that 
strange  host  as  he  told  the  story  of  his  evil  days 
were  a  curious  spectacle.  Some  seemed  disgusted, 
especially  Monpavon.  That  display  of  old  rags 
seemed  to  him  in  execrable  taste,  and  to  denote 
utter  lack  of  breeding.  Cardailhac,  that  sceptic 
and  man  of  refined  taste,  a  foe  to  all  emotional 
scenes,  sat  with  staring  eyes  and  as  if  hypnotized, 
cutting  a  piece  of  fruit  with  the  end  of  his  fork  into 

VOL.   I. — 4 


50  The  Nabob. 

strips  as  thin  as  cigarette  papers.  The  Governor, 
on  the  contrary,  went  through  a  pantomime  ex- 
pressive of  perfunctory  admiration,  with  exclama- 
tions of  horror  and  compassion  ;  while,  in  striking 
contrast  to  him,  and  not  far  away,  Brahim  Bey,  the 
thunderbolt  of  war,  in  whom  the  reading  of  the 
article,  followed  by  discussion  after  a  substantial 
repast,  had  induced  a  refreshing  nap,  was  sleeping 
soundly,  with  his  mouth  like  a  round  O  in  his  white 
moustache,  and  with  the  blood  congested  in  his  face 
as  a  result  of  the  creeping  up  of  his  gorget.  But 
the  general  expression  was  indifference  and  ennui. 
What  interest  had  they,  I  ask  you,  in  Jansoulet's 
childhood  at  Bourg-Saint-Andeol,  in  what  he  had 
suffered,  and  how  he  had  been  driven  from  pillar 
to  post?  They  had  not  come  there  for  such  stuff 
as  that.  So  it  was  that  expressions  of  feigned 
interest,  eyes  that  counted  the  eggs  in  the  ceiling 
or  the  crumbs  of  bread  on  the  table-cloth,  lips 
tightly  compressed  to  restrain  a  yawn,  betrayed  the 
general  impatience  caused  by  that  untimely  nar- 
rative. But  he  did  not  grow  weary.  He  took 
pleasure  in  the  recital  of  his  past  suffering,  as  the 
sailor  in  a  safe  haven  delights  in  recalling  his  voy- 
ages in  distant  seas,  and  the  dangers,  and  the  ter- 
rible shipwrecks.  Next  came  the  tale  of  his  good 
luck,  the  extraordinary  accident  that  suddenly 
started  him  on  the  road  to  fortune.  "  I  was  wan- 
dering about  the  harbor  of  Marseille,  with  a 
comrade  as  out-at-elbows  as  myself,  who  also 
made  his  fortune  in  the  Bey's  service,  and,  after 
being  my  chum,  my  partner,  became  my  bitterest 


A  Breakfast  on  Place    Vendbme.      51 

enemy.  I  can  safely  tell  you  his  name,  pardi ! 
He  is  well  enough  known,  Hemerlingue.  Yes, 
messieurs,  the  head  of  the  great  banking-house  of 
Hemerlingue  and  Son  had  n't  at  that  time  the 
money  to  buy  two  sous'  worth  of  crabs  on  the 
quay.  Intoxicated  by  the  air  of  travel  that  you 
breathe  in  those  parts,  it  occurred  to  us  to  go  and 
seek  a  living  in  some  sunny  country,  as  the  foggy 
countries  were  so  cruel  to  us.  But  where  should 
we  go?  We  did  what  sailors  sometimes  do  to 
decide  what  den  they  shall  squander  their  wages 
in.  They  stick  a  bit  of  paper  on  the  rim  of  a  hat. 
Then  they  twirl  the  hat  on  a  cane,  and  when  it 
stops,  they  go  in  the  direction  in  which  the  paper 
points.  For  us  the  paper  needle  pointed  to  Tunis. 
A  week  later  I  landed  at  Tunis  with  half  a  louis  in 
my  pocket,  and  I  return  to-day  with  twenty-five 
millions. " 

There  was  a  sort  of  electric  shock  around  the 
table,  a  gleam  in  every  eye,  even  in  those  of 
the  servants.  Cardailhac  exclaimed  :  "  Mazette  !  " 
Monpavon's  nose  subsided. 

"  Yes,  my  children,  twenty-five  millions  in  avail- 
able funds,  to  say  nothing  of  all  that  I  've  left  in 
Tunis,  my  two  palaces  on  the  Bardo,  my  vessels  in 
the  harbor  of  La  Goulette,  my  diamonds  and  my 
jewels,  which  are  certainly  worth  more  than  twice 
that.  And  you  know,"  he  added,  with  his  genial 
smile,  in  his  hoarse,  unmusical  voice,  "when  it's 
all  gone,  there  will  still  be  some  left." 

The  whole  table  rose,  electrified. 

"Bravo!     Ah!    bravo!" 


52  The  Nabob, 

"  Superb." 

"  Very  cJiic  —  very  chic^ 

"  Well  said." 

"  A  man  like  that  ought  to  be  in  the  Chamber." 

"  He  shall  be,  per  Bacco  !  my  word  for  it,"  ex- 
claimed the  Governor,  in  a  voice  of  thunder;  and, 
carried  away  by  admiration,  not  knowing  how  to 
manifest  his  enthusiasm,  he  seized  the  Nabob's 
great  hairy  hand  and  impulsively  put  it  to  his 
lips.  Everybody  was  standing ;  they  did  not 
resume  their  seats. 

Jansoulet,  radiant  with  pleasure,  had  also  risen. 

"  Let  us  have  our  coffee,"  he  said,  throwing  down 
his  napkin. 

Immediately  the  party  circulated  noisily  through 
the  salons,  enormous  rooms,  in  which  the  light,  the 
decoration,  the  magnificence  consisted  of  gold 
alone.  It  fell  from  the  ceiling  in  blinding  rays, 
oozed  from  the  walls  in  fillets,  window-sashes  and 
frames  of  all  sorts.  One  retained  a  little  of  it  on 
one's  hands  after  moving  a  chair  or  opening  a 
window;  and  even  the  hangings,  having  been 
dipped  in  that  Pactolus,  preserved  upon  their  stiff 
folds  the  rigidity  and  sheen  of  metal.  But  there 
was  nothing  individual,  homelike,  dainty.  It  was 
the  monotonous  splendor  of  the  furnished  apart- 
ment. And  this  impression  of  a  flying  camp,  of 
a  temporary  establishment,  was  heightened  by  the 
idea  of  travelling  that  hovered  about  that  fortune 
drawn  from  distant  sources,  like  a  cloud  of  uncer- 
tainty or  a  threat. 

The  coffee  was  served  in  the  Oriental  fashion, 


A  Breakfast  on  Place   Vendbme.      53 

with  all  the  grounds,  in  small  filigreed  silver  cups, 
and  the  guests  stood  around  in  groups,  drinking 
hastily,  burning  their  tongues,  watching  one  an- 
other furtively,  and  keeping  especially  close  watch 
on  the  Nabob,  in  order  to  grasp  the  favorable  mo- 
ment to  jump  upon  him,  drag  him  into  a  corner  of 
one  of  those  huge  rooms,  and  arrange  their  loan 
at  last.  For  it  was  that  for  which  they  had  been 
waiting  for  two  hours,  that  was  the  object  of  their 
visit,  and  the  fixed  idea  that  gave  them  that  dis- 
traught, falsely  attentive  air,  during  the  breakfast. 
But  now  there  was  no  more  embarrassment,  no 
more  grimacing.  Everybody  in  that  strange  com- 
pany knew  that,  in  the  Nabob's  crowded  existence, 
the  coffee  hour  alone  was  left  free  for  confidential 
audiences,  and  as  every  one  wished  to  take  advan- 
tage of  it,  as  they  had  all  come  for  the  purpose  of 
tearing  a  handful  of  wool  from  that  golden  fleece 
which  offered  itself  to  them  so  good-naturedly, 
they  no  longer  talked  or  listened,  they  attended 
strictly  to  business. 

Honest  Jenkins  is  the  one  who  begins.  He  has 
led  his  friend  Jansoulet  into  a  window-recess  and 
is  submitting  to  him  the  drawings  for  the  house 
at  Nanterre.  A  pretty  outlay,  by  heaven !  One 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  for  the  property, 
and,  in  addition,  the  very  considerable  expense  of 
installation,  the  staff,  the  bedding,  the  goats  for 
nurses,  the  manager's  carriage,  the  omnibuses  to 
meet  the  children  at  every  train.  A  great  deal 
of  money  —  But  how  comfortable  the  dear  little 
creatures  will  be  there !    what  a  service  to  Paris, 


54  The  Nabob. 

to  mankind !  The  Government  cannot  fail  to 
reward  with  a  bit  of  red  ribbon  such  unselfish 
philanthropy.  "The  Cross,  the  15th  of  August." 
With  those  magic  words  Jenkins  can  obtain  what- 
ever he  wants.  With  his  hoarse,  cheerful  voice, 
which  seems  to  be  hailing  a  vessel  in  the  fog,  the 
Nabob  calls,  "  Bompain."  The  man  in  the  fez, 
tearing  himself  away  from  the  cellaret,  crosses  the 
salon  majestically,  whispers,  goes  away  and  returns 
with  an  inkstand  and  a  check-book,  the  leaves  of 
which  come  out  and  fly  away  of  themselves.  What 
a  fine  thing  is  wealth !  To  sign  a  check  for  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  on  his  knee  costs  Jansou- 
let  no  more  than  to  take  a  louis  from  his  pocket. 

The  others,  with  their  noses  in  their  cups  and 
rage  in  their  hearts,  watch  this  little  scene  from 
afar.  And  when  Jenkins  takes  his  leave,  bright 
and  smiling,  and  waving  his  hand  to  the  different 
groups,  Monpavon  seizes  the  Governor :  "  Now,  it 's 
our  turn."  And  they  pounce  together  upon  the 
Nabob,  lead  him  to  a  divan,  force  him  to  sit  down, 
and  squeeze  him  between  them  with  a  savage  little 
laugh  that  seems  to  mean  :  "  What  are  we  going  to 
do  to  him?"  Extract  money  from  him,  as  much 
of  it  as  possible.  It  must  be  had  in  order  to  float 
the  Caisse  Territoriale ,  which  has  been  aground  for 
years,  buried  in  sand  to  her  masthead.  A  mag- 
nificent operation,  this  of  floating  her  again,  if  we 
are  to  believe  these  two  gentlemen ;  for  the  buried 
craft  is  full  of  ingots,  of  valuable  merchandise,  of 
the  thousand  varied  treasures  of  a  new  country  of 
which  every  one  is  talking  and  of  which  no  one 


A  Breakfast  on  Place    Veudbme.      55 

knows  anything.  The  aim  of  Paganetti  of  Porto- 
Vecchio  in  founding  that  unrivalled  establishment 
was  to  monopolize  the  exploitation  of  Corsica :  iron 
mines,  sulphur  mines,  copper  mines,  marble  quar- 
ries, chalybeate  and  sulphur  springs,  vast  forests 
of  lignum  vitae  and  oak;  and  to  facilitate  that 
exploitation  by  building  a  network  of  railroads 
throughout  the  island,  and  establishing  a  line  of 
steamboats.  Such  was  the  gigantic  enterprise  to 
which  he  has  harnessed  himself  He  has  sunk  a 
large  amount  of  money  in  it,  and  the  new-comer, 
the  laborer  of  the  eleventh  hour,  will  reap  the 
whole  profit. 

While  the  Corsican  with  his  Italian  accent,  his 
frantic  gestures,  enumerates  the  splendores  of  the 
affair,  Monpavon,  dignified  and  haughty,  nods  his 
head  with  an  air  of  conviction,  and  from  time  to 
time,  when  he  deems  the  moment  propitious,  tosses 
into  the  conversation  the  name  of  the  Due  de  Mora, 
which  always  produces  its  effect  on  the  Nabob. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  that  you  need?  " 

"  Millions,"  says  Monpavon  superbly,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  who  is  not  embarrassed  by  any  lack  of 
persons  to  whom  to  apply,  "  Yes,  millions.  But 
it's  a  magnificent  opening.  And,  as  His  Excel- 
lency said,  it  would  afford  a  capitalist  an  oppor- 
tunity to  attain  a  lofty  position,  even  a  political 
position.  Just  consider  a  moment !  in  that  penni- 
less country.  One  might  become  a  member  of  the 
General  Council,  a  Deputy  —  "  The  Nabob  starts. 
And  little  Paganetti,  feeling  the  bait  tremble  on  his 
hook,  continues:    "Yes,  a  Deputy;  you  shall  be 


56  The  Nabob. 

one  when  I  choose.  At  a  word  from  me  all  Cor- 
sica is  at  your  service."  Thereupon  he  launches 
out  on  a  bewildering  extemporization,  counting  up 
the  votes  at  his  disposal,  the  cantons  which  will 
rise  at  his  summons.  "  You  bring  me  your  funds 
—  I  give  you  a  whole  people."  The  affair  is  car- 
ried by  storm. 

"  Bompain  !  Bompain  !  "  calls  the  Nabob  in  his 
enthusiasm.  He  has  but  one  fear,  that  the  thing 
will  escape  him ;  and  to  bind  Paganetti,  who  does 
not  conceal  his  need  of  money,  he  hastens  to 
pour  a  first  instalment  into  the  Caisse  Tcrritoriale. 
Second  appearance  of  the  man  in  the  red  cap  with 
the  check-book,  which  he  holds  solemnly  against 
his  breast,  like  a  choir-boy  carrying  the  Gospel. 
Second  affixture  of  Jansoulet's  signature  to  a  check, 
which  the  Governor  stows  away  with  a  negligent 
air,  and  which  effects  a  sudden  transformation  of 
his  whole  person.  Paganetti,  but  now  so  humble 
and  unobtrusive,  walks  away  with  the  self-assur- 
ance of  a  man  held  in  equilibrium  by  four  hundred 
thousand  francs,  while  Monpavon,  carrying  his 
head  even  higher  than  usual,  follows  close  upon 
his  heels  and  watches  over  him  with  a  more  than 
paternal  solicitude. 

"  There  's  a  good  stroke  of  business  well  done," 
says  the  Nabob  to  himself,  "  and  I  '11  go  and  drink 
my  coffee."  But  ten  borrowers  are  lying  in  wait 
for  him.  The  quickest,  the  most  adroit,  is  Cardail- 
hac,  the  manager,  who  hooks  him  and  carries  him 
off  into  an  empty  salon.  "  Let  us  talk  a  bit,  my 
good  friend.     I  must  set  before  you  the  condition 


A  Breakfast  on  Place   Vcndbme.       57 

of  our  theatre,"  A  very  complicated  condition, 
no  doubt;  for  here  comes  Monsieur  Bompain 
again,  and  more  sky-blue  leaves  fly  away  from  the 
check-book.  Now,  whose  turn  is  it?  The  jour- 
nalist Moessard  comes  to  get  his  pay  for  the  article 
in  the  Messager;  the  Nabob  will  learn  what  it  costs 
to  be  called  "  the  benefactor  of  infancy "  in  the 
morning  papers.  The  provincial  cur6  asks  for 
funds  to  rebuild  his  church,  and  takes  his  check 
by  assault  with  the  brutality  of  a  Peter  the  Hermit. 
And  now  old  Schwalbach  approaches,  with  his 
nose  in  his  beard,  winking  mysteriously.  "  Sh ! 
he  has  vound  ein  bearl,"  for  monsieur's  gallery,  an 
Hobbema  from  the  Due  de  Mora's  collection.  But 
several  people  have  their  eye  on  it.  It  will  be 
difficult  to  obtain.  "  I  must  have  it  at  any  price," 
says  the  Nabob,  allured  by  the  name  of  Mora. 
"  You  understand,  Schwalbach,  I  must  have  that 
Nobbema.  Twenty  thousand  francs  for  you  if  you 
hit  it  off." 

"  I  vill  do  mein  best.  Monsieur  Jansoulet." 
And  the  old  knave,  as  he  turns  away,  calculates 
that  the  Nabob's  twenty  thousand,  added  to  the 
ten  thousand  the  duke  has  promised  him  if  he  gets 
rid  of  his  picture,  will  make  a  very  pretty  little 
profit  for  him. 

While  these  fortunate  ones  succeed  one  another, 
others  prowl  about  frantic  with  impatience,  biting 
their  nails  to  the  quick ;  for  one  and  all  have  come 
with  the  same  object.  From  honest  Jenkins,  who 
headed  the  procession,  down  to  Cabassu,  the  mas- 
seur, who  closes  it,  one  and  all  lead  the  Nabob 


58  The  Nabob. 

aside.  But  however  far  away  they  take  him  in 
that  long  file  of  salons,  there  is  always  some  indis- 
creet mirror  to  reflect  the  figure  of  the  master  of 
the  house,  and  the  pantomime  of  his  broad  back. 
Th?t  back  is  so  eloquent !  At  times  it  straightens 
up  indignantly.  "  Oh  !  no,  that  is  too  much  !  " 
Or  else  it  collapses  with  comical  resignation. 
"  Very  well,  if  you  will  have  it  so."  And  Bompain's 
fez  always  lurking  in  some  corner  of  the  landscape. 

When  these  have  finished,  others  arrive ;  they 
are  the  small  fish  that  follow  in  the  wake  of  the 
great  sharks  in  the  savage  hunting  in  the  sea. 
There  is  constant  going  and  coming  through  those 
superb  white  and  gold  salons,  a  slamming  of  doors, 
an  unbroken  current  of  insolent  extortion  of  the 
most  hackneyed  type,  attracted  from  the  four 
corners  of  Paris  and  the  suburbs  by  that  enormous 
fortune  and  that  incredible  gullibility. 

For  these  small  sums,  this  incessant  doling 
out  of  cash,  he  did  not  have  recourse  to  the  check- 
book. In  one  of  his  salons  the  Nabob  kept  a 
commode,  an  ugly  little  piece  of  furniture  repre- 
senting the  savings  of  some  concierge ;  it  was  the 
first  article  Jansoulet  bought  when  he  w^as  in  a 
position  to  renounce  furnished  apartments,  and  he 
had  kept  it  ever  since  like  a  gambler's  fetish ;  its 
three  drawers  always  contained  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  in  current  funds.  He  resorted  to  that 
never-failing  supply  on  the  days  of  his  great  audi- 
ences, ostentatiously  plunging  his  hands  in  the  gold 
and  silver,  stuffing  it  into  his  pockets  to  produce  it 
later  with  the  gesture  of  a  cattle-dealer,  a  certain 


A  Breakfast  on  Place   Vendbme.      59 

vulgar  way  of  raising  the  skirts  of  his  coat  and 
sending  his  hand  "  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  pile." 
A  tremendous  inroad  must  have  been  made  upon 
the  little  drawers  to-day. 

After  so  many  whispered  conferences,  requests 
more  or  less  clearly  stated,  anxious  entrances  and 
triumphant  exits,  the  last  client  dismissed,  the 
commode  drawers  locked,  the  apartment  on  Place 
Vendome  was  left  in  solitude  in  the  fading  light  of 
four  o'clock,  the  close  of  the  November  days  which 
are  prolonged  so  far  beyond  that  hour  by  the  aid 
of  artificial  light  The  servants  removed  the  coffee 
cups,  the  raki  and  the  open,  half-emptied  boxes  of 
cigars.  The  Nabob,  thinking  that  he  was  alone, 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief:  "  Ouf !  that's  all 
over."  But  no.  A  figure  emerges  from  a  corner 
already  in  shadow,  and  approaches  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"  Another !  " 

Thereupon  the  poor  man  instinctively  repeated 
his  eloquent  horse-dealer's  gesture.  At  that  the 
visitor,  also  instinctively,  recoiled  so  quickly  and 
with  such  an  insulted  air  that  the  Nabob  realized 
that  he  was  in  error  and  took  the  trouble  to  observe 
the  young  man  who  stood  before  him,  simply  but 
correctly  dressed,  with  a  sallow  complexion,  abso- 
lutely no  beard,  regular  features,  perhaps  a  little 
too  serious  and  determined  for  his  years,  which 
fact,  with  his  extremely  light  hair,  curling  tightly 
all  over  his  head  like  a  powdered  wig,  gave  him 
the  aspect  of  a  young  deputy  of  the  Tiers   Etat 


6o  The  Nabob. 

under  Louis  XVI.,  the  face  of  a  Barnave  at  twenty. 
That  face,  although  the  Nabob  then  saw  it  for  the 
first  time,  was  not  altogether  unfamiliar  to  him, 

"What  do  you  wish,  monsieur?" 

Taking  the  letter  the  young  man  handed  him, 
he  walked  to  a  window  to  read  it. 

"  Ah  !  —  it 's  from  mamma." 

He  said  it  with  such  a  joyous  inflection,  the 
word  "  mamma  "  lighted  his  whole  face  with  such 
a  youthful,  attractive  smile,  that  the  visitor,  repelled 
at  first  by  the  parvenu's  vulgar  appearance,  felt  in 
full  sympathy  with  him. 

The  Nabob  read  in  an  undertone  these  few  lines 
written  in  a  coarse,  incorrect,  trembling  hand,  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  fine  laid  paper  with  the 
words  "  Chateau  de  Saint-Romans  "  at  the  top, 

"  My  Dear  Son,  —  This  letter  will  be  handed  to  you 
by  the  oldest  of  Monsieur  de  Gary's  children,  the  former 
justice  of  the  peace  at  Bourg-Saint-And^ol,  who  was  so 
kind  to  us  —  " 

The  Nabob  interrupted  himself  to  say : 
"  I  ought  to  have  known  you,  Monsieur  de  Gery. 
You  look  like  your  father.  Take  a  seat,  I  beg  you." 
Then  he  finished  running  through  the  letter. 
His  mother  made  no  precise  request,  but,  in  the 
name  of  the  services  the  de  G^ry  family  had  for- 
merly rendered  them,  she  commended  Monsieur 
Paul  to  him.  An  orphan,  with  his  two  young 
brothers  to  support,  he  had  been  admitted  to 
practice  as  an  advocate  in  the  South  and  was  start- 
ing for  Paris  to  seek  his  fortune.     She  implored 


A  Breakfast  on  Place    Vendome.      6i 

Jansoulct  to  assist  him,  "  for  he  sorely  needed  it, 
poor  fellow."  And  she  signed :  "  Your  mother, 
who  is  dying  for  a  sight  of  you,  FRANgoiSE." 

That  letter  from  his  mother,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  six  years,  the  Southern  forms  of  expres- 
sion in  which  he  recognized  familiar  intonations, 
the  coarse  handwriting  which  drew  for  him  a  be- 
loved face,  all  wrinkled  and  sunburned  and  fur- 
rowed, but  smiling  still  beneath  a  peasant's  cap, 
made  a  profound  impression  upon  the  Nabob. 
During  the  six  weeks  he  had  been  in  France,  im- 
mersed in  the  eddying  whirl  of  Paris,  of  his  instal- 
lation, he  had  not  once  thought  of  the  dear  old 
soul ;  and  now  he  saw  her  in  every  line.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  the  letter,  which 
shook  in  his  fat  fingers. 

Then,  his  emotion  having  subsided,  "  Monsieur 
de  Gery,"  he  said,  "  I  am  happy  to  have  the  op- 
portunity to  repay  a  little  of  the  kindness  your 
family  has  showered  upon  mine.  This  very  day, 
if  you  agree,  I  take  you  into  my  service.  You  are 
well  educated,  you  seem  intelligent,  you  can  be  of 
very  great  service  to  me.  I  have  innumerable 
plans,  innumerable  matters  in  hand.  I  have  been 
drawn  into  a  multitude  of  large  industrial  under- 
takings. I  need  some  one  to  assist  me,  to  take  my 
place  at  need.  To  be  sure,  I  have  a  secretary,  a 
steward,  that  excellent  Bompain ;  but  the  poor 
fellow  knows  nothing  of  Paris.  You  will  say  that 
you  are  fresh  from  the  provinces.  But  that's  of 
no  consequence.  Well  educated  as  you  are,  a 
Southerner,    open-eyed    and    adaptable,   you   will 


62  The  Nabob. 

soon  get  the  hang  of  the  boulevard.  At  all  events, 
I  '11  undertake  your  education  in  that  direction  my- 
self. In  a  few  weeks  you  shall  have  a  foot  as  thor- 
oughly Parisian  as  mine,  I  promise  you." 

Poor  man !  It  was  touching  to  hear  him  talk 
about  his  Parisian  foot  and  his  experience,  when 
he  was  fated  never  to  be  more  than  a  beginner. 

"Well,  it's  a  bargain,  eh?  I  take  you  for  my 
secretary.  You  shall  have  a  fixed  salary  which  we 
will  agree  upon  directly;  and  I  will  give  you  a 
chance  to  make  your  fortune  quickly." 

And  as  de  Gery,  suddenly  relieved  of  all  his 
anxieties  as  a  new-comer,  a  petitioner,  a  neophyte, 
did  not  stir  for  fear  of  waking  from  a  dream,  the 
Nabob  added  in  a  softer  tone : 

"  Now  come  and  sit  here  by  me,  and  let  us  talk 
a  Httle  about  mamma." 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk,  63 


III. 


MEMOIRS    OF   A    CLERK.— A  CASUAL    GLANCE  AT 
THE   "CAISSE   TERRITORIALE." 

I  HAD  just  finished  my  humble  morning  meal, 
and,  as  my  custom  is,  had  bestowed  the  balance  of 
my  provisions  in  the  safe  in  the  directors'  room,  a 
magnificent  safe  with  a  secret  lock,  which  has 
served  as  my  pantry  during  the  four  years,  or 
nearly  that,  of  my  employment  in  the  Tcrritorialc  ; 
suddenly  the  Governor  enters  the  office,  red  as  a 
turkey-cock,  his  eyes  inflamed  as  if  he  were  fresh 
from  a  feast,  breathing  noisily,  and  says  to  me  in 
vulgar  phrase,  with  his  Italian  accent : 

"  There  's  a  horrible  smell  here,  Monssiou  Pas- 
sajon." 

There  was  not  a  horrible  smell,  if  you  please. 
But — shall  I  say  it?  —  I  had  sent  out  for  a  few 
onions  to  put  around  a  bit  of  knuckle  of  veal, 
brought  down  to  me  by  Mademoiselle  Seraphine, 
the  cook  on  the  second  floor,  whose  accounts  I 
write  up  every  evening.  I  tried  to  explain  to  the 
Governor ;  but  he  worked  himself  into  a  rage,  say- 
ing that  in  his  opinion  there  was  no  sense  in  poi- 
soning offices  in  that  way,  and  that  it  was  n't  worth 


64  The  Nabob. 

while  to  pay  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year  for  a 
suite  of  rooms  with  eight  windows  on  the  front,  in 
the  best  part  of  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  to  cook 
onions  in.  I  don't  know  what  he  did  n't  say  to 
me  in  his  effervescent  state.  For  my  part,  I  was 
naturally  vexed  to  be  spoken  to  in  that  insolent 
tone.  The  least  one  can  do  is  to  be  polite  to 
people  whom  one  neglects  to  pay,  deuce  take  it ! 
So  I  retorted  that  it  was  too  bad,  really ;  but,  if 
the  Caisse  Territoriale  would  pay  what  they  owe 
me,  to  wit  my  arrears  of  salary  for  four  years,  plus 
seven  thousand  francs  advanced  by  me  to  the  Gov- 
ernor to  pay  for  carriages,  newspapers,  cigars  and 
American  drinks  on  the  days  the  council  met,  I 
would  go  and  eat  like  a  Christian  at  the  nearest 
cheap  alehouse,  and  should  not  be  reduced  to 
cooking  for  myself,  in  the  directors'  room,  a 
wretched  stew  which  I  owed  to  the  public  compas- 
sion of  cooks.     And  there  you  are  ! 

In  speaking  thus  I  gave  way  to  an  indignant  im- 
pulse very  excusable  in  the  eyes  of  anybody  who 
is  acquainted  with  my  position  here.  However,  I 
had  said  nothing  unseemly,  but  had  kept  within  the 
limits  of  language  suited  to  my  age  and  education. 
(I  must  have  stated  somewhere  in  these  memoirs 
that  I  passed  more  than  thirty  of  my  sixty-five 
years  as  apparitor  to  the  Faculty  of  Letters  at 
Dijon.  Hence  my  taste  for  reports  and  memoirs, 
and  those  notions  of  academic  style  of  which  traces 
will  be  found  in  many  passages  of  this  lucubra- 
tion.) I  had,  I  repeat,  expressed  myself  to  the 
Governor  with  the  greatest  reserve,  refraining  from 


Meinoirs  of  a  Clerk.  65 

employing  any  of  those  insulting  words  with  which 
every  one  here  regales  him  during  the  day,  from 
our  two  censors,  M.  de  Monpavon,  who  laughingly 
calls  him  Fleur-dc-Mazas,  whenever  he  comes  here, 
and  M.  de  Bois-l'Hery  of  the  Trompettes  Club, 
who  is  as  vulgar  in  his  language  as  a  groom,  and 
ahvays  says  to  him  by  way  of  adieu :  "  To  your 
wooden  bed,  flea !  "  From  those  two  down  to  our 
cashier,  whom  I  have  heard  say  to  him  a  hundred 
times,  tapping  his  ledger:  "There's  enough  in 
here  to  send  you  to  the  galleys  whenever  I 
choose."  And  yet,  for  all  that,  my  simple  obser- 
vation produced  a  most  extraordinary  effect  upon 
him.  The  circles  around  his  eyes  turned  bright 
yellow,  and  he  said,  trembling  with  anger,  the 
wicked  anger  of  his  country  :  "  Passajon,  you  're  a 
blackguard !  One  word  more  and  I  discharge 
you."  I  was  struck  dumb  with  amazement.  Dis- 
charge me  —  me  !  And  what  about  my  four  years' 
arrears,  and  my  seven  thousand  francs  of  advances  ! 
As  if  he  read  my  thoughts  as  they  entered  my 
head,  the  Governor  replied  that  all  the  accounts 
s..were  to  be  settled,  including  mine.  "  By  the  way," 
he  added,  "  just  call  all  the  clerks  to  my  office.  I 
have  some  great  news  to  tell  them."  With  that  he 
entered  his  office  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 
That  devil  of  a  man  !  No  matter  how  well  you 
may  know  him,  know  what  a  liar  he  is  and  what 
an  actor,  he  always  finds  a  way  to  put  you  off  with 
his  palaver.  My  account !  Why,  I  was  so  excited 
that  my  legs  ran  away  with  me  while  I  was  going 

about  to  notify  the  staff. 
VOL.  I.  — 5 


66  The  Nabob. 

Theoretically  there  are  twelve  of  us  at  the 
Caisse  Territoriale,  including  the  Governor  and  the 
dandy  Moessard,  manager  of  the  Veriti Financikre; 
but  really  there  are  less  than  half  that  number. 
In  the  first  place,  since  the  FmV/ ceased  to  appear 
—  that  was  two  years  ago  —  M.  Moessard  has  n't 
once  set  foot  inside  our  doors.  It  seems  that  he 
is  swimming  in  honors  and  wealth,  that  he  has  for 
a  dear  friend  a  queen,  a  real  queen,  who  gives  him 
all  the  money  he  wants.  Oh !  what  a  Babylon 
this  Paris  is !  The  others  look  in  occasionally  to 
see  if  by  chance  there  is  anything  new  at  the 
Caisse  ;  and,  as  there  never  is,  weeks  pass  without 
our  seeing  them.  Four  or  five  faithful  ones,  poor 
old  fellows  all,  like  myself,  persist  in  appearing 
regularly  every  morning,  at  the  same  hour,  as  a 
matter  of  habit,  because  they  have  nothing  else  to 
do,  and  are  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  turn  their 
hand  to ;  but  they  all  busy  themselves  with  mat- 
ters that  have  no  connection  whatever  with  the 
office.  One  must  live,  there's  no  doubt  of  that! 
And  then  a  man  cannot  pass  his  day  lounging  from 
chair  to  chair,  from  window  to  window,  to  look  out^ 
(eight  front  windows  on  the  boulevard).  So  we 
try  to  get  such  work  as  we  can.  For  my  part,  I 
write  for  Mademoiselle  Seraphine  and  another 
cook  in  the  house.  Then  I  write  up  my  memoirs, 
which  takes  no  small  amount  of  time.  Our  receiv- 
ing teller  —  there's  a  fellow  who  hasn't  a  very 
laborious  task  with  us  —  makes  netting  for  a  house 
that  deals  in  fishermen's  supplies.  One  of  our  two 
copyists,  who  writes  a  beautiful  hand,  copies  plays 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  67 

for  a  dramatic  agency ;  the  other  makes  little  toys 
worth  a  sou,  which  are  sold  by  hucksters  at  the 
street  corners  toward  New  Year's  Day,  and  in  that 
way  succeeds  in  keeping  himself  from  starving  to 
death  the  rest  of  the  year.  Our  cashier  is  the  only 
one  who  does  no  outside  work.  He  would  think 
that  he  had  forfeited  his  honor.  He  is  a  very 
proud  man,  who  never  complains,  and  whose  only 
fear  is  that  he  may  seem  to  be  short  of  linen. 
Locked  into  his  office,  he  employs  his  time  from 
morning  till  night,  making  shirt-fronts,  collars  and 
cuffs  out  of  paper.  He  has  attained  very  great 
skill,  and  his  linen,  always  dazzlingly  white,  would 
deceive  any  one,  were  it  not  that,  at  the  slightest 
movement,  when  he  walks,  when  he  sits  down,  it 
cracks  as  if  he  had  a  pasteboard  box  in  his  stomach. 
Unluckily  all  that  paper  does  not  feed  him ;  and 
he  is  so  thin,  he  has  such  a  gaunt  look,  that  one 
wonders  what  he  can  live  on.  Between  ourselves, 
I  suspect  him  of  sometimes  paying  a  visit  to  my 
pantry.  That 's  an  easy  matter  for  him  ;  for,  in  his 
capacity  of  cashier,  he  has  the  "word  "  that  opens 
.the  secret  lock,  and  I  fancy  that,  when  my  back  is 
turned,  he  does  a  little  foraging  among  my  supplies. 

Surely  this  is  a  most  extraordinary,  incredible 
banking-house.  And  yet  what  I  am  writing  is  the 
solenm  truth,  and  Paris  is  full  of  financial  estab- 
lishments of  the  same  sort  as  ours.  Ah  !  if  I  ever 
publish  my  memoirs.  But  let  me  take  up  the 
interrupted  thread  of  my  narrative. 

When  we  were  all  assembled  in  his  office,  the 
manager  said  to  us  with  great  solemnity: 


68  The  Nabob. 

"  Messieurs  and  dear  comrades,  the  time  of  our 
trials  is  at  an  end.  The  Caisse  Tcrritoriale  is 
entering  upon  a  new  phase  of  its  existence." 

With  that  he  began  to  tell  us  about  a  superb 
combinasione  —  that  is  his  favorite  word,  and  he 
says  it  in  such  an  insinuating  tone  !  —  a  conibinazi- 
one  in  which  the  famous  Nabob  of  whom  all  the 
papers  are  talking  is  to  have  a  part.  Thus  the 
Caisse  Territoriale  would  be  able  to  discharge  its 
obligation  to  its  loyal  servants,  to  reward  those 
who  had  shown  devotion  to  its  service  and  lop  ofif 
those  who  were  useless.  This  last  for  me,  I 
imagine.  And  finally :  "  Make  up  your  accounts. 
They  will  all  be  settled  to-morrow."  Unfortu- 
nately he  has  so  often  soothed  our  feelings  with 
lying  words  that  his  discourse  produced  no  effect. 
Formerly  those  fine  promises  of  his  always  suc- 
ceeded. On  the  announcement  of  a  new  com- 
binaziotie,  we  used  to  caper  about  and  weep  with 
joy  in  the  offices,  and  embrace  one  another  like 
shipwrecked  sailors  at  sight  of  a  sail. 

Everyone  prepared  his  account  for  the  next  day, 
as  he  had  told  us.  But  the  next  day,  no  Governor. 
The  next  day  but  one,  still  no  Governor.  He  had 
gone  on  a  little  journey. 

At  last,  when  we  were  all  together,  exasperated 
beyond  measure,  putting  out  our  tongues,  crazy 
for  the  water  that  he  had  held  to  our  mouths,  the 
Governor  arrived,  dropped  into  a  chair,  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands,  and,  before  we  had  time  to  speak 
to  him,  exclaimed :  "  Kill  me,  kill  me !  I  am  a 
miserable  impostor.     The  combinazione  has  fallen 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  69 

through.  Pechero!  the  combinazione  has  fallen 
through !  "  And  he  cried  and  sobbed,  threw  him- 
self on  his  knees,  tore  out  his  hair  by  handfuls 
and  rolled  on  the  carpet;  he  called  us  all  by  our 
nicknames,  begged  us  to  take  his  life,  spoke  of  his 
wife  and  children,  whom  he  had  utterly  ruined. 
And  not  one  of  us  had  the  courage  to  complain 
in  the  face  of  such  despair.  What  do  I  say?  We 
ended  by  sharing  it.  No,  never  since  theatres 
existed,  has  there  been  such  an  actor.  But  to-day, 
it  is  all  over,  our  confidence  has  departed.  When 
he  had  gone  everybody  gave  a  shrug.  I  must  con- 
fess, however,  that  for  a  moment  I  was  shaken. 
The  assurance  with  which  he  talked  about  dis- 
charging me,  and  the  name  of  the  Nabob,  who  was 
so  wealthy  — 

"Do  you  believe  that?"  said  the  cashier. 
"  Why,  you  '11  always  be  an  innocent,  my  poof 
Passajon.  Never  you  fear !  The  Nabob 's  in  it 
just  about  as  much  as    Moessard's    queen   was." 

And  he  went  back  to  his  shirt-fronts. 

His  last  remark  referred  back  to  the  time  when 
Moessard  was  paying  court  to  his  queen  and  had 
promised  the  Governor  that,  in  case  he  was  success- 
ful, he  would  induce  Her  Majesty  to  invest  some 
funds  in  our  enterprise.  All  of  us  in  the  office 
were  informed  of  that  new  prospect  and  deeply 
interested,  as  you  may  imagine,  in  its  speedy 
realization,  since  our  money  depended  on  it.  For 
two  months  that  fable  kept  us  in  breathless  sus- 
pense. We  were  consumed  with  anxiety,  we  scru- 
tinized Moessard's  face ;  we  thought  that  the  effects 


70  The  Nabob. 

of  his  association  with  the  lady  were  very  visible 
there ;  and  our  old  cashier,  with  his  proud,  serious 
air,  would  reply  gravely  from  behind  his  grating, 
when  we  questioned  him  on  the  subject:  "  There  's 
nothing  new,"  or:  "The  affair's  in  good  shape." 
With  that  everybody  was  content  and  we  said  to 
each  other :  "  It 's  coming  along,  it 's  coming 
along,"  as  if  it  were  a  matter  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  business.  No,  upon  my  word,  Paris  is 
the  only  place  in  the  world  where  such  things 
can  be  seen.  It  positively  makes  one's  head 
spin  sometimes.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that,  one 
fine  morning,  Moessard  stopped  coming  to  the 
office.  He  had  succeeded,  it  seems ;  but  the 
Caisse  Territoriale  did  not  seem  to  him  a  suf- 
ficiently advantageous  investment  for  his  dear 
friend's  funds.     That  was  honorable,  was  n't  it? 

However,  the  sentiment  of  honor  is  so  easily 
lost  that  one  can  scarcely  believe  it.  When  I  think 
that  I,  Passajon,  with  my  white  hair,  my  venerable 
appearance,  my  spotless  past  —  thirty  years  of 
academic  service  —  have  accustomed  myself  to 
living  amid  these  infamies  and  base  intrigues  like 
a  fish  in  water !  One  may  well  ask  what  I  am 
doing  here,  why  I  remain  here,  how  I  happened 
to  come  here. 

How  did  I  happen  to  come  here?  Oh!  bless 
your  soul,  in  the  simplest  way  you  can  imagine. 
Nearly  four  years  ago,  my  wife  being  dead  and  my 
children  married,  I  had  just  accepted  my  retiring 
pension  as  apparitor  to  the  Faculty,  when  an 
advertisement    in    the    newspaper    happened    to 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk,  71 

come  to  my  notice.  "  Wanted,  a  clerk  of  mature 
age  at  the  Caisse  Tcrritoriale,  56  Boulev^ard  Males- 
herbes.  Good  references."  Let  me  make  a  con- 
fession at  once.  The  modern  Babylon  had  always 
tempted  me.  And  then  I  felt  that  I  was  still  vigor- 
ous, I  could  see  ten  active  years  before  me,  during 
which  I  might  earn  a  little  money,  much  perhaps, 
by  investing  my  savings  in  the  banking-house  I 
was  about  to  enter.  So  I  wrote,  inclosing  my 
photograph  by  Crespon,  Place  du  Marche,  in 
which  I  am  represented  with  a  clean-shaven  chin, 
a  bright  eye  under  my  heavy  white  eyebrows, 
wearing  my  steel  chain  around  my  neck,  my 
insignia  as  an  academic  official,  "  with  the  air  of  a 
conscript  father  on  his  curule  chair !  "  as  our  dean, 
M.  Chalmette,  used  to  say.  (Indeed  he  declared 
that  I  looked  very  much  like  the  late  Louis  XVIII., 
only  not  so  heavy.) 

So  I  furnished  the  best  of  references,  the  most 
flattering  recommendations  from  the  gentlemen  of 
the  Faculty.  By  return  mail  the  Governor  an- 
swered my  letter  to  the  effect  that  my  face  pleased 
him  —  I  should  think  so,  parbleii!  a  reception 
room  guarded  by  an  imposing  countenance  like 
mine  is  a  tempting  bait  to  the  investor,  —  and 
that  I  might  come  when  I  chose.  I  ought,  you 
will  tell  me,  to  have  made  inquiries  on  my  own 
account.  Oh !  of  course  I  ought.  But  I  had  so 
much  information  to  furnish  about  myself  that  it 
never  occurred  to  me  to  ask  them  for  any  about 
themselves.  Moreover,  how  could  one  have  a 
feeling  of  distrust  after  seeing  these  superb  quar- 


72  The  Nabob. 

ters,  these  lofty  ceilings,  these  strong-boxes,  as 
large  as  wardrobes,  and  these  mirrors  in  which 
you  can  see  yourself  from  head  to  foot?  And 
then  the  sonorous  prospectuses,  the  millions  that 
I  heard  flying  through  the  air,  the  colossal  enter- 
prises with  fabulous  profits.  I  was  dazzled,  fasci- 
nated. I  must  say,  also,  that  at  that  time  the 
establishment  had  a  very  different  look  from  that 
it  has  to-day.  Certainly  affairs  were  going  badly 
—  they  have  always  gone  badly,  have  our  affairs  — 
and  the  journal  appeared  only  at  irregular  inter- 
vals. But  one  of  the  Governor's  little  conibin- 
azioni  enabled  him  to  save   appearances. 

He  had  conceived  the  idea,  if  you  please,  of 
opening  a  patriotic  subscription  to  erect  a  statue 
to  General  Paolo  Paoli,  a  great  man  of  his  country. 
The  Corsicans  are  not  rich,  but  they  are  as 
vain  as  turkeys.  So  money  poured  into  the 
Territorialc.  But  unfortunately  it  did  not  last. 
In  two  months  the  statue  was  devoured,  before 
it  was  erected,  and  the  succession  of  protests 
and  summonses  began  again.  To-day  I  am  used 
to  it.  But  when  I  first  came  from  my  province, 
the  notices  posted  by  order  of  the  court,  the 
bailiffs  at  the  door,  made  a  painful  impression 
upon  me.  Inside,  no  attention  was  paid  to  them. 
They  knew  that  at  the  last  moment  a  Monpavon 
or  a  Bois-1'Hery  was  certain  to  turn  up  to  appease 
the  bailiffs ;  for  all  those  gentlemen,  being  deeply 
involved  in  the  affair,  are  interested  to  avoid  a  fail- 
ure. That  is  just  what  saves  our  evil-minded  little 
Governor.     The   others  run  after  their  moneys 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  73 

everyone  knows  what  that  means  in  gambhng  — 
and  they  would  not  be  pleased  to  know  that  all 
the  shares  they  have  in  their  hands  are  worth 
nothing  more  than  their  weight  as  old  paper. 

From  the  smallest  to  the  greatest,  all  of  us  in  the 
house  are  in  that  plight.  From  the  landlord,  to 
whom  we  owe  two  years'  rent  and  who  keeps  us 
on  for  nothing  for  fear  of  losing  it  all,  down  to 
us  poor  clerks,  to  myself,  who  am  in  for  seven 
thousand  francs  of  savings  and  my  four  years'  back 
pay,  we  are  all  running  after  our  money.  That  is 
why  I  persist  in  remaining  here. 

Doubtless,  notwithstanding  my  advanced  age,  I 
might  have  succeeded,  by  favor  of  my  education, 
my  general  appearance  and  the  care  I  have  always 
taken  of  my  clothes,  in  getting  a  place  in  some 
other  ofhce.  There  is  a  very  honorable  person  of 
my  acquaintance,  M.  Joyeuse,  bookkeeper  for 
Hemerlingue  and  Son,  the  great  bankers  on  Rue 
Saint-Honore,  who  never  fails  to  say  to  me  when- 
ever he  meets  me : 

"  Passajon,  my  boy,  don't  stay  in  that  den  of 
thieves.  You  make  a  mistake  in  staying  on  there  ; 
you  '11  never  get  a  sou  out  of  it.  Come  to  Hemer- 
lingue's.  I  '11  undertake  to  find  some  little  corner 
for  you.  You  will  earn  less,  but  you  '11  receive 
very  much  more." 

I  feel  that  he  is  right,  the  honest  fellow.  But 
it 's  stronger  than  I  am,  I  cannot  make  up  my 
mind  to  go.  And  yet  this  is  not  a  cheerful  life 
that  I  lead  here  in  these  great  cold  rooms  where 
no  one  ever  comes,  where  every  one  slinks  into  a 


74  The  Nabob. 

corner  without  speaking.  What  would  you  have? 
We  know  one  another  too  well,  that 's  the  whole  of 
it.  Up  to  last  year  we  had  meetings  of  the  council 
of  supervision,  meetings  of  stockholders,  stormy, 
uproarious  meetings,  genuine  battles  of  savages, 
whose  yells  could  be  heard  at  the  Madeleine. 
And  subscribers  used  to  come  too,  several  times  a 
week,  indignant  because  they  had  never  heard  any- 
thing from  their  money.  Those  were  the  times 
when  our  Governor  came  out  strong.  I  have  seen 
people  go  into  his  office,  monsieur,  as  fierce  as 
wolves  thirsty  for  blood,  and  come  out,  after  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  milder  than  sheep,  satisfied, 
reassured,  and  their  pockets  comforted  with  a  few 
bank-notes.  For  there  was  the  cunning  of  the 
thing:  to  ruin  with  money  the  poor  wretches  who 
came  to  demand  it.  To-day  the  shareholders  of 
the  Caisse  Territoriale  never  stir.  I  think  that  they 
are  all  dead  or  resigned  to  their  fate.  The  council 
never  meets.  We  have  sessions  only  on  paper ;  it 
is  my  duty  to  make  up  a  so-called  balance-sheet  — 
always  the  same — of  which  I  make  a  fresh  copy  every 
three  months.  We  never  see  a  living  soul,  except 
that  at  rare  intervals  some  subscriber  to  the  Paoli 
statue  drops  down  on  us  from  the  wilds  of  Corsica, 
anxious  to  know  if  the  monument  is  progressing; 
or  perhaps  some  devout  reader  of  the  Verite  Finan- 
ciered which  disappeared  more  than  two  years  ago, 
comes  with  an  air  of  timidity  to  renew  his  subscrip- 
tion, and  requests  that  it  be  forwarded  a  little  more 
regularly,  if  possible.  There  is  a  confidence  which 
nothing   weakens.     When  one    of  those  innocent 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  75 

creatures  falls  in  the  midst  of  our  half-starved  band, 
it  is  something  terrible.  We  surround  him,  we 
embrace  him,  we  try  to  get  his  name  on  one  of  our 
lists,  and,  in  case  he  resists,  if  he  will  subscribe 
neither  to  the  Paoli  monument  nor  to  the  Corsican 
railways,  then  those  gentry  perform  what  they  call 
—  my  pen  blushes  to  write  it  —  what  they  call 
"  the  drayman  trick." 

This  is  how  it  is  done :  we  always  have  in  the 
office  a  package  prepared  beforehand,  a  box  tied 
with  stout  string  which  arrives,  presumably  from 
some  railway  station,  while  the  visitor  is  there. 
"  Twenty  francs  cartage,'^  says  the  one  of  us  who 
brings  in  the  package.  (Twenty  francs,  or  some- 
times thirty,  according  to  the  victim's  appearance.) 
Every  one  at  once  begins  to  fumble  in  his  pockets  : 
"  Twenty  francs  cartage  !  I  have  n't  it."  —  "Nor  I." 
What  luck  !  Some  one  runs  to  the  counting-room. 
Closed  !  They  look  for  the  cashier.  Gone  out ! 
And  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  drayman  waxing  im- 
patient in  the  ante-room :  "  Come,  come,  make 
haste."  (I  am  generally  selected  for  the  drayman's 
part,  because  of  my  voice.)  What  is  to  be  done? 
Send  back  the  package?  the  Governor  won't  like 
that.  "  Messieurs,  I  beg  you  to  allow  me,"  the 
innocent  victim  ventures  to  observe,  opening  his 
purse.  —  "Ah!  monsieur,  if  you  would." — He 
pays  his  twenty  francs,  we  escort  him  to  the  door, 
and  as  soon  as  his  back  is  turned  we  divide  the 
fruit  of  the  crime,  laughing  like  brigands. 

Fie  !  Monsieur  Passajon.  Such  performances  at 
your  time  of  life !     Oh !  Mon  Dien!     I  know  all 


76  The  Nabob. 

about  it.  I  know  that  I  should  honor  myself  much 
more  if  I  left  this  vile  place.  But,  what  then? 
why,  I  must  abandon  all  that  I  have  at  stake  here. 
No,  it  is  not  possible.  It  is  urgently  necessary 
that  I  remain,  that  I  keep  a  close  watch,  that  I  am 
always  on  hand  to  have  the  advantage  of  a  wind- 
fall, if  one  should  come.  Oh !  I  swear  by  my 
ribbon,  by  my  thirty  years  of  academic  service,  if 
ever  an  afifair  like  this  of  the  Nabob  makes  it  pos- 
sible for  me  to  recoup  my  losses,  I  will  not  wait  a 
moment,  I  will  take  myself  off  in  hot  haste  to  look 
after  my  little  vineyard  near  Monbars,  cured  for- 
ever of  my  speculative  ideas.  But  alas  !  that  is  a 
very  chimerical  hope, —  played  out,  discredited,  well 
known  as  we  are  on  'Change,  with  our  shares  no 
longer  quoted  at  the  Bourse,  our  obligations  fast 
becoming  waste  paper,  such  a  wilderness  of  false- 
hood and  debts,  and  the  hole  that  is  being  dug 
deeper  and  deeper.  (We  owe  at  this  moment  three 
million  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  And  yet 
that  three  millions  is  not  what  embarrasses  us.  On 
the  other  hand  it  is  what  keeps  us  up ;  but  we  owe 
the  concierge  a  little  bill  of  a  hundred  and  twenty 
five  francs  for  postage  stamps,  gas  and  the  like. 
That 's  the  dangerous  thing.)  And  they  would 
have  us  believe  that  a  man,  a  great  financier  like 
this  Nabob,  even  though  he  was  just  from  the 
Congo  or  had  come  from  the  moon  this  very  day, 
is  fool  enough  to  put  his  money  in  such  a  trap. 
Nonsense!  Is  it  possible?  Tell  that  story  else- 
where, my  dear  Governor. 


A  Debut  in  Society.  ^'j 


TV. 

A  DfiBUT    IN    SOCIETY. 

"  Monsieur  Bernard  Jansoulet  !  " 

That  plebeian  name,  proudly  announced  by 
the  liveried  footman  in  a  resounding  voice,  rang 
through  Jenkins's  salons  like  the  clash  of  cymbals, 
like  one  of  the  gongs  that  announce  fantastic 
apparitions  in  a  fairy  play.  The  candles  paled, 
flames  flashed  from  every  eye,  at  the  dazzling 
prospect  of  Oriental  treasures,  of  showers  of  pearls 
and  sequins  let  fall  by  the  magic  syllables  of  that 
name,  but  yesterday  unknown. 

Yes,  it  was  he,  the  Nabob,  the  richest  of  the 
rich,  the  great  Parisian  curiosity,  flavored  with 
that  spice  of  adventure  that  is  so  alluring  to  sur- 
feited multitudes.  All  heads  were  turned,  all 
conversation  was  interrupted ;  there  was  a  grand 
rush  for  the  door,  a  pushing  and  jostling  like  that 
of  the  crowds  on  the  quay  at  a  seaport,  to  watch 
the  arrival  of  a  felucca  with  a  cargo  of  gold. 

Even  the  hospitable  Jenkins,  who  was  standing 
in  the  first  salon  to  receive  his  guests,  despite  his 
usual  self-possession  abruptly  left  the  group  of 
men  with  whom  he  was  talking  and  bore  away  to 
meet  the  galleons. 


•j8  The  Nabob. 

"  A  thousand  times,  a  thousand  times  too  kind. 
Madame  Jenkins  will  be  very  happy,  very  proud. 
Come  and  let  me  take  you  to  her." 

And  in  his  haste,  in  his  vainglorious  delight, 
he  dragged  Jansoulet  away  so  quickly  that  the 
latter  had  no  time  to  present  his  companion,  Paul 
de  Gery,  whom  he  was  introducing  into  society. 
The  young  man  was  well  pleased  to  be  over- 
looked. He  glided  into  the  mass  of  black  coats 
which  was  forced  farther  and  farther  back  by 
every  new  arrival,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  it, 
a  prey  to  the  foolish  terror  that  every  young  pro- 
vincial feels  on  his  first  appearance  in  a  Parisian 
salon,  especially  when  he  is  shrewd  and  intelligent 
and  does  not  wear  the  imperturbable  self-assur- 
ance of  the  bumpkin  like  a  coat  of  mail  beneath 
his  linen  buckler. 

You,  Parisians  of  Paris,  who,  ever  since  you 
were  sixteen  have  exhibited  your  youth  at  the 
receptions  of  all  classes  of  society,  in  your  first 
black  coat  with  your  crush-hat  on  your  hip, — 
you,  I  say,  have  no  conception  ot  that  anguish, 
compounded  of  vanity,  timidity  and  recollections 
of  romantic  books,  which  screws  our  teeth  to- 
gether, embarrasses  our  movements,  makes  us  for 
a  whole  evening  a  statue  between  two  doors,  a 
fixture  in  a  window-recess,  a  poor,  pitiful,  wander- 
ing creature,  incapable  of  making  his  existence 
manifest  otherwise  than  by  changing  his  position 
from  time  to  time,  preferring  to  die  of  thirst 
rather  than  go  near  the  sideboard,  and  going 
away  without  having  said  a  word,  unless  we  may 


A  Debut  in  Society.  79 

have  stammered  one  of  those  incoherent  absurdi- 
ties which  we  remember  for  months,  and  which 
makes  us,  when  we  think  of  it  at  night,  utter  an 
ah !  of  frantic  shame  and  bury  our  face  in  the 
pillow. 

Paul  de  Gery  was  a  martyr  of  that  type.  In 
his  province  he  had  always  lived  a  very  retired 
life,  with  a  pious,  melancholy  old  aunt,  until  the 
time  when,  as  a  student  of  law,  originally  destined 
for  a  profession  in  which  his  father  had  left  an 
excellent  reputation,  he  had  been  induced  to  fre- 
quent the  salons  of  some  of  the  counsellors  of  the 
court,  old-fashioned,  gloomy  dwellings,  with  dingy 
hangings,  where  he  made  a  fourth  hand  at  whist 
with  venerable  ghosts,  Jenkins'  evening  party 
was  therefore  a  debut  in  society  for  that  provin- 
cial, whose  very  ignorance  and  Southern  adapta- 
bility made  him  first  of  all  a  keen  observer. 

From  the  place  where  he  stood  he  watched 
the  interesting  procession,  still  in  progress  at  mid- 
night, of  Jenkins'  guests,  the  whole  body  of  the 
fashionable  physician's  patients;  the  very  flower 
of  society,  a  large  sprinkling  of  politics  and  finance, 
bankers,  deputies,  a  few  artists,  all  the  jaded  ones 
of  Parisian  high  life,  pale  and  wan,  with  gleaming 
eyes,  saturated  with  arsenic  like  gluttonous  mice, 
but  insatiably  greedy  of  poison  and  of  life. 
Through  the  open  salon  and  the  great  reception- 
room,  the  doors  of  which  had  been  removed,  he 
could  see  the  stairway  and  landing,  profusely 
decorated  with  flowers  along  the  sides,  where  the 
long  trains  were  duly  spread,  their  silky  weight 


So  The  Nabob, 

seeming  to  force  back  the  decollete  busts  of  their 
wearers  in  that  graceful  ascending  motion  which 
caused  them  to  appear,  little  by  little,  until  they 
burst  upon  one  in  the  full  bloom  of  their  splendor. 
As  the  couples  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  they 
seemed  to  make  their  entrance  on  the  stage ;  and 
that  was  doubly  true,  for  every  one  left  on  the 
last  step  the  frowns,  the  wrinkles  of  deep  thought 
the  air  of  weariness  and  all  traces  of  anger  or 
depression,  to  display  a  tranquil  countenance,  a 
smile  playing  over  the  placid  features.  The  men 
exchanged  hearty  grasps  of  the  hand,  warm  fra- 
ternal greetings ;  the  women,  thinking  only  of 
themselves,  with  little  affected  shrugs,  with  a 
charming  simper  and  abundant  play  of  the  eyes 
and  shoulders,  murmured  a  few  meaningless  words 
of  greeting: 

"  Thanks  !  Oh  !  thanks  —  how  kind  you  are." 
Then  the  couples  separated,  for  an  evening 
party  is  no  longer,  as  it  used  to  be,  an  assemblage 
of  congenial  persons,  in  which  the  wit  of  the 
women  compelled  the  force  of  character,  the  supe- 
rior knowledge,  the  very  genius  of  the  men  to 
bow  gracefully  before  it,  but  a  too  numerous  mob 
in  which  the  women,  who  alone  are  seated,  whisper 
together  like  captives  in  the  harem,  and  have  no 
other  enjoyment  than  that  of  being  beautiful  or  of 
seeming  to  be.  De  Gery,  after  wandering  through 
the  doctor's  library,  the  conservatory  and  the 
billiard  room,  where  there  was  smoking,  tired  of 
dull,  serious  conversation,  which  seemed  to  him 
to  be  out  of  keeping  in  such  a  festal  scene  and  in 


A  Debut  in  Society.  8i 

the  brief  hour  of  pleasure  —  some  one  had  asked 
him  carelessly  and  without  looking  at  him,  what 
was  doing  at  the  Bourse  that  day  —  approached 
the  door  of  the  main  salon,  w^hich  was  blockaded 
by  a  dense  mass  of  black  coats,  a  surging  sea  of 
heads  packed  closely  together  and  gazing. 

An  enormous  room,  handsomely  furnished,  with 
the  artistic  taste  characteristic  of  the  master  and 
mistress  of  the  house.  A  few  old  pictures  against 
the  light  background  of  the  draperies.  A  monu- 
mental chimney-piece,  decorated  with  a  fine 
marble  group,  "  The  Seasons  "  by  Sebastien  Ruys, 
about  which  long  green  stalks,  with  lacelike  edges, 
or  of  the  stiffness  of  carved  bronze,  bent  toward 
the  mirror  as  toward  a  stream  of  limpid  water. 
On  the  low  chairs  groups  of  women  crowded 
together,  blending  the  vaporous  hues  of  their 
dresses,  forming  an  immense  nosegay  of  living 
flowers,  above  which  gleamed  bare  white  shoulders, 
hair  studded  with  diamonds,  drops  of  water  on  the 
brunettes,  glistening  reflections  on  the  blondes, 
and  the  same  intoxicating  perfume,  the  same  con- 
fused, pleasant  buzzing,  made  by  waves  of  heat 
and  intangible  wings,  that  caresses  all  the  flowers 
in  the  garden  in  summer.  At  times  a  little  laugh, 
ascending  in  that  luminous  atmosphere,  a  quicker 
breath,  made  plumes  and  curls  tremble,  and 
attracted  attention  to  a  lovely  profile.  Such  was 
the  aspect  of  the  salon. 

A  few  men  were  there,  very  few,  all  persons  of 
distinction,  laden  with  years  and  decorations,  talk- 
ing on  the  arm  of  a  divan  or  leaning  over  the  back 


82  The  Nabob. 

of  a  chair  with  the  condescending  air  we  assume 
in  conversing  with  children.  But  amid  the  placid 
murmur  of  the  private  conversations,  one  voice 
rang  out,  loud  and  discordant,  the  voice  of  the 
Nabob,  who  was  threading  his  way  through  that 
social  conservatory  with  the  self-assurance  due  to 
his  immense  fortune  and  a  certain  contempt  for 
woman  which  he  had  brought  with  him  from  the 
Orient. 

At  that  moment,  sprawling  upon  a  chair,  with  his 
great  yellow-gloved  hands  awkwardly  clasped,  he 
was  talking  with  a  very  beautiful  woman,  whose 
unusual  face  —  much  animation  upon  features  of 
a  severe  cast  —  was  noticeable  by  reason  of  its 
pallor  among  the  surrounding  pretty  faces,  just  as 
her  dress,  all  white,  classic  in  its  draping  and 
moulded  to  her  graceful,  willowy  figure,  contrasted 
with  much  richer  costumes,  not  one  of  which  had 
its  character  of  bold  simplicity.  De  Gery,  from 
his  corner,  gazed  at  that  smooth,  narrow  forehead 
beneath  the  fringe  of  hair  brushed  low,  those  long, 
wide-open  eyes  of  a  deep  blue,  an  abysmal  blue, 
that  mouth  which  ceased  to  smile  only  to  relax  its 
classic  outline  in  a  weary,  spiritless  expression. 
All  in  all,  the  somewhat  haughty  aspect  of  an 
exceptional  being. 

Some  one  near  him  mentioned  her  name  — 
Felicia  Ruys.  Thereupon  he  understood  the  rare 
attraction  of  that  girl,  inheritress  of  her  father's 
genius,  whose  new-born  celebrity  had  reached  as 
far  as  his  province,  with  the  halo  of  a  reputation 
for  great  beauty.     While  he  was  gazing  at  her, 


A  Debut  in  Society.  83 

admiring  her  slightest  movement,  a  little  puzzled 
by  the  enigma  presented  by  that  beautiful  face,  he 
heard  a  whispered  conversation  behind  him, 

"  Just  see  how  affable  she  is  with  the  Nabob ! 
Suppose  the  duke  should  come !  " 

"  Is  the  Due  de  Mora  expected?  " 

"  To  be  sure.  The  party  is  given  for  him ;  to 
have  him  meet  Jansoulet." 

*'  And  you  think  that  the  duke  and  Made- 
moiselle Ruys  —  " 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  ?  It 's  a  liaison 
known  to  all  Paris.  It  dates  from  the  last  Salon, 
for  which  she  did  his  bust." 

"  And  what  about  the  duchess?  " 

"  Pshaw !  she  has  seen  many  others.  Ah ! 
Madame  Jenkins  is  going  to  sing." 

There  was  a  commotion  in  the  salon,  a  stronger 
pressure  in  the  crowd  toward  the  door,  and  conver- 
'sation  ceased  for  a  moment.  Paul  de  Gery  drew  a 
long  breath.  The  words  he  had  just  overheard 
had  oppressed  his  heart.  He  felt  as  if  he  himself 
were  spattered,  sullied  by  the  mud  unsparingly 
thrown  upon  the  ideal  he  had  formed  for  himself 
of  that  glorious  youth,  ripened  in  the  sun  of  art 
and  endowed  with  such  penetrating  charm.  He 
moved  away  a  little,  changed  his  position.  He 
dreaded  to  hear  some  other  calumny.  Madame 
Jenkins'  voice  did  him  good,  a  voice  famous  in 
Parisian  salons,  a  voice  that,  with  all  its  brilliancy, 
was  in  no  sense  theatrical,  but  seemed  like  speech, 
thrilling  with  emotion,  striking  resonant,  unfa- 
miliar chords.     The  singer,  a  woman  of  from  forty 


84  The  Nabob. 

to  forty-five  years  of  age,  had  magnificent  hair  of 
the  color  of  ashes,  refined,  somewhat  weak  fea- 
tures, and  an  expression  of  great  amiabihty. 
Still  beautiful,  she  was  dressed  with  the  costly 
taste  of  a  woman  who  has  not  abandoned  the  idea 
of  pleasing.  Nor  had  she  abandoned  it;  she  and 
the  doctor  —  she  was  then  a  widow  —  had  been 
married  some  ten  years,  and  they  seemed  still  to 
be  enjoying  the  first  months  of  their  joint  happi- 
ness. While  she  sang  a  Russian  folk-song,  as  wild 
and  sweet  as  the  smile  of  a  Slav,  Jenkins  artlessly 
manifested  his  pride  without  attempt  at  conceal- 
ment, his  broad  face  beamed  expansively;  and 
she,  every  time  that  she  leaned  forward  to  take 
breath,  turned  in  his  direction  a  timid,  loving 
glance  which  sought  him  out  over  the  music  she 
held  in  her  hand.  And  when  she  had  finished, 
amid  a  murmur  of  delight  and  admiration,  it  was 
touching  to  see  her  secretly  press  her  husband's 
hand,  as  if  to  reserve  for  herself  a  little  corner 
of  private  happiness  amid  that  great  triumph. 
Young  de  Gery  was  taking  comfort  in  the  sight  of 
that  happy  couple,  when  suddenly  a  voice  mur- 
mured by  his  side  —  it  was  not  the  same  voice  that 
had  spoken  just  before : 

"You  know  what  people  say  —  that  the  Jen- 
kinses are  not  married," 

"  What  nonsense  !  " 

"  True,  I  assure  you  —  it  seems  that  there  's  a 
genuine  Madame  Jenkins  somewhere,  but  not  this 
one  who  has  been  exhibited  to  us.  By  the  way, 
have  you  noticed  —  " 


A  D'ehit  in  Society.  85 

The  conversation  continued  in  an  undertone. 
Madame  Jenkins  approached,  bowing  and  smihng, 
while  the  doctor,  stopping  a  salver  as  it  passed, 
brought  her  a  glass  of  bordeaux  with  the  zeal  of 
a  mother,  an  impresario,  a  lover.  Slander,  slander, 
ineffaceable  stain  !  Now  Jenkins'  attentions  seemed 
overdone  to  the  provincial.  He  thought  that  there 
was  something  affected,  studied  in  them,  and  at  the 
same  time  he  fancied  that  he  noticed  in  the  thanks 
she  expressed  to  her  husband  in  a  low  tone  a 
dread,  a  submissiveness  derogatory  to  the  dignity 
of  a  lawful  wife,  happy  and  proud  in  an  unassail- 
able position.  "  Why,  society  is  a  hideous  thing !  " 
said  de  Gery  to  himself  in  dismay,  his  hands  as 
cold  as  ice.  The  smiles  that  encompassed  him 
seemed  to  him  like  mere  grimacing.  He  was 
ashamed  and  disgusted.  Then  suddenly  his  soul 
rose  in  revolt:  "Nonsense!  it  isn't  possible!" 
And,  as  if  in  answer  to  that  exclamation,  the  voice 
of  slander  behind  him  continued  carelessly :  "  After 
all,  you  know,  I  am  not  sure.  I  simply  repeat 
what  I  hear.  Look,  there  's  Baronne  Hemerlingue. 
He  has  all  Paris  here,  this  Jenkins." 

The  baroness  came  forward  on  the  doctor's  arm  ; 
he  had  rushed  forward  to  meet  her,  and,  despite 
his  perfect  control  over  his  features,  he  seemed  a 
little  perturbed  and  disconcerted.  It  had  occurred 
to  the  excellent  Jenkins  to  take  advantage  of  his 
party  to  make  peace  between  his  friend  Hemer- 
lingue and  his  friend  Jansoulet,  his  two  wealthiest 
patients,  who  embarrassed  him  seriously  with  their 
internecine  warfare.     The    Nabob    asked    nothing 


86  The  Nabob. 

better.  He  bore  his  former  chum  no  malice.  Their 
rupture  had  come  about  as  a  result  of  Hemer- 
lingue's  marriage  with  one  of  the  favorites  of  the 
former  bey.  "  A  woman's  row,  in  fact,"  said 
Jansoulet;  and  he  would  be  very  glad  to  see  the 
end  of  it,  for  any  sort  of  ill-feeling  was  burdensome 
to  that  exuberant  nature.  But  it  seemed  that  the 
baron  was  not  anxious  for  a  reconciliation ;  for, 
notwithstanding  the  promise  he  had  given  Jenkins, 
his  wife  appeared  alone,  to  the  Irishman's  great 
chagrin. 

She  was  a  tall,  thin,  fragile  personage,  with  eye- 
brows like  a  bird's  feathers,  a  youthful,  frightened 
manner,  thirty  years  striving  to  seem  twenty,  with 
a  head-dress  of  grasses  and  grain  drooping  over 
jet  black  hair  thickly  strewn  with  diamonds.  With 
her  long  lashes  falling  over  white  cheeks  of  the 
wax-like  tint  of  women  who  have  lived  long  in  the 
seclusion  of  a  cloister,  a  little  embarrassed  in  her 
Parisian  garb,  she  bore  less  resemblance  to  a 
former  occupant  of  a  harem  than  to  a  nun  who^ 
had  renounced  her  vows  and  returned  to  the  world. 
A  touch  of  devotion,  of  sanctity  in  her  carriage,  a 
certain  ecclesiastical  trick  of  walking  with  down- 
cast eyes,  elbows  close  to  the  sides  and  hands 
folded,  manners  which  she  had  acquired  in  the 
ultra-religious  environment  in  which  she  had  lived 
since  her  conversion  and  her  recent  baptism,  com- 
pleted the  resemblance.  And  you  can  imagine 
whether  worldly  curiosity  was  rampant  around 
that  ex-odalisque  turned  fervent  Catholic,  as  she 
entered    the   room,    escorted    by   a   sacristan-like 


A  Debut  in  Society.  87 

figure  with  a  livid  face  and  spectacles,  Maitre  Le 
Merquier,  Deputy  for  Lyon,  Hemerlingue's  man 
of  business,  who  attended  the  baroness  when  the 
baron  was  "  slightly  indisposed,"  as  upon  this 
occasion. 

When  they  entered  the  second  salon,  the  Nabob 
walked  forward  to  meet  her,  expecting  to  descry 
in  her  wake  the  bloated  face  of  his  old  comrade, 
to  whom  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  offer  his 
hand.  The  baroness  saw  him  coming  and  became 
whiter  than  ever.  A  steely  gleam  shot  from  under 
her  long  lashes.  Her  nostrils  dilated,  rose  and  fell, 
and  as  Jansoulet  bowed,  she  quickened  her  pace, 
holding  her  head  erect  and  rigid,  letting  fall  from 
her  thin  lips  a  word  in  Arabic  which  no  one  else 
could  understand,  but  in  which  the  poor  Nabob,  for 
his  part,  understood  the  bitter  insult ;  for  when  he 
raised  his  head  his  swarthy  face  was  of  the  color 
of  terra-cotta  when  it  comes  from  the  oven.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  speechless,  his  great  fists 
clenched,  his  lips  swollen  with  anger.  Jenkins 
joined  him,  and  de  Gery,  who  had  watched  the 
whole  scene  from  a  distance,  saw  them  talking 
earnestly  together  with  a  preoccupied  air. 

The  attempt  had  miscarried.  The  reconciliation, 
so  cleverly  planned,  would  not  take  place.  Hem- 
erlingue  did  not  want  it.  If  only  the  duke  did  not 
break  his  word  !  It  was  getting  late.  La  Wauters, 
who  was  to  sing  the  "  Night  "  aria  from  the  Magic 
Flute,  after  the  performance  at  her  theatre,  had 
just  arrived  all  muffled  up  in  her  lace  hood. 

And  the  minister  did  not  come. 


88  The  Nabob. 

But  it  was  a  promise  and  everything  was  under- 
stood. Monpav^on  was  to  take  him  up  at  the 
club.  From  time  to  time  honest  Jenkins  drew 
his  watch,  as  he  tossed  an  absent-minded  bravo  to 
the  bouquet  of  limpid  notes  that  gushed  from  La 
Wauters'  fairy  lips,  a  bouquet  worth  three  thousand 
francs,  and  absolutely  wasted,  in  common  with  the 
other  expenses  of  the  festivity,  if  the  duke  did 
not  come. 

Suddenly  both  wings  of  the  folding-doors  were 
thrown  open : 

"  His  Excellency  the  Due  de  Mora !  " 

A  prolonged  thrill  of  excitement  greeted  him, 
respectful  curiosity  drawn  up  in  a  double  row, 
instead  of  the  brutal  crowding  that  had  impeded 
the  passage  of  the  Nabob. 

No  one  could  be  more  skilled  than  he  in  the  art 
of  making  his  appearance  in  society,  of  walking 
gravely  across  a  salon,  ascending  the  tribune  with 
smiling  face,  imparting  solemnity  to  trifles  and 
treating  serious  matters  lightly;  it  was  a  resume 
of  his  attitude  in  life,  a  paradoxical  distinction. 
Still  handsome,  despite  his  fifty-six  years,  —  a 
beauty  attributable  to  refined  taste  and  perfect 
proportion,  in  which  the  grace  of  the  dandy  was 
intensified  by  something  of  a  soldierly  character  in 
the  figure  and  the  haughty  expression  of  the  face, 
—  he  appeared  to  admirable  advantage  in  the  black 
coat,  whereon,  in  Jenkins'  honor,  he  had  placed  a 
few  of  his  decorations,  which  he  never  displayed 
except  on  days  of  official  functions.  The  sheen  of 
the   linen    and   the   white   cravat,  the  unpolished 


;v  '" 


/*ii'.  .-.      t 


r^j>^rUjhl.  iS^H.  t'yluUe.  t<r\'a"i    H- 


A  Debtit  in  Society.  89 

silver  of  the  decorations,  the  softness  of  the  thin, 
grayish  hair,  gave  added  pallor  to  the  face,  the 
most  bloodless  of  all  the  bloodless  faces  assembled 
that  evening  under  the  Irishman's  roof. 

He  led  such  a  terrible  life !  Politics,  gambling 
in  every  form,  on  the  Bourse  and  at  baccarat,  and 
the  reputation  of  a  lady-killer  which  he  must  main- 
tain at  any  price.  Oh  !  he  was  a  typical  patient 
of  Jenkins,  and  he  certainly  owed  that  visit  in 
princely  state  to  the  inventor  of  the  mysterious 
Pearls,  which  gave  to  his  eyes  that  glance  of  flame,  to 
his  whole  being  that  extraordinary  pulsing  vivacity. 
"  My  dear  duke,  allow  me  to  present  to  you  —  " 
Monpavon,  solemn  of  face,  with  padded  calves, 
attempted  to  make  the  introduction  so  anxiously 
expected ;  but  His  Excellency,  in  his  preoccupa- 
tion, did  not  hear  and  kept  on  toward  the  large 
salon,  borne  onward  by  one  of  those  electric  cur- 
rents that  break  the  monotony  of  social  life.  As 
he  passed,  and  while  he  paid  his  respects  to  the 
fair  Madame  Jenkins,  the  women  leaned  forward 
with  alluring  glances,  soft  laughter,  intent  upon 
making  a  favorable  impression.  But  he  saw  only 
one,  Felicia,  who  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of 
men,  holding  forth  as  if  in  her  own  studio,  and 
tranquilly  sipping  a  sherbet  as  she  watched  the 
duke's  approach.  She  welcomed  him  with  perfect 
naturalness.  Those  who  stood  by  discreetly  with- 
drew. But,  in  spite  of  what  de  Gery  had  over- 
heard concerning  their  alleged  relations,  there 
seemed  to  be  only  a  good-fellowship  entirely  of 
the  mind  between  them,  a  playful  familiarity. 


go  The  Nabob. 

"  I  called  at  your  house,  Mademoiselle,  on  my 
way  to  the  Bois." 

"  So  I  understood.  You  even  went  into  the 
studio." 

"  And  I  saw  the  famous  group  —  my  group." 

"Well?" 

"  It  is  very  fine.  The  greyhound  runs  like  a 
mad  dog.  The  fox  is  admirably  done.  But  I 
did  n't  quite  understand.  You  told  me  that  it  was 
the  story  of  us  two." 

"  And  so  it  is !  Look  carefully.  It 's  a  fable 
that  I  read  in  —  You  don't  read  Rabelais,  Monsieur 
leDuc?" 

"  Faith,  no.     He  is  too  vulgar." 

"  Well,  I  have  learned  to  read  him.  Very  ill- 
bred,  you  know !  Oh !  very.  My  fable,  then,  is 
taken  from  Rabelais.  This  is  it:  Bacchus  has 
made  a  wonderful  fox  that  cannot  possibly  be 
overtaken.  Vulcan,  for  his  part,  has  given  a  dog 
of  his  making  the  power  to  overtake  any  animal 
that  he  pursues.  *  Now,'  as  my  author  says,  *  sup- 
pose that  they  meet.'  You  see  what  a  wild  and 
interminable  race  will  result.  It  seems  to  me,  my 
dear  duke,  that  destiny  has  brought  us  face  to  face 
in  like  manner,  endowed  with  contrary  qualities, 
you,  who  have  received  from  the  gods  the  gift  of 
reaching  all  hearts,  and  I,  whose  heart  will  never 
be  taken." 

She  said  this,  looking  him  fairly  in  the  face, 
almost  laughing,  but  slim  and  erect  in  her  white 
tunic,  which  seemed  to  protect  her  person  against 
the  liberties  of  his  wit.     He,  the  conqueror,  the 


A  Debut  in  Society.  91 

irresistible,  had  never  met  one  of  that  audacious, 
self-willed  race.  So  he  enveloped  her  in  all  the 
magnetic  currents  of  his  seductive  charm,  while 
around  them  the  murmur  of  the  fete,  the  flute-like 
laughter,  the  rustling  of  satins  and  strings  of  pearls 
played  an  accompaniment  to  that  duet  of  worldly- 
passion  and  juvenile  irony. 

In  a  moment  he  rejoined : 

"  But  how  did  the  gods  extricate  themselves 
from  that  scrape?" 

"  By  changing  the  two  coursers  to  stone." 

"  By  heaven,"  said  he,  "  that  is  a  result  which  I 
refuse  to  accept.  I  defy  the  gods  to  turn  my  heart 
to  stone." 

A  flame  darted  from  his  eyes,  extinguished  in- 
stantly at  the  thought  that  people  were  looking  at 
them. 

In  truth  many  people  were  looking  at  them,  but 
no  one  with  such  deep  interest  as  Jenkins,  who 
prowled  around  them,  impatient  and  chafing,  as  if 
he  were  angry  with  Felicia  for  monopolizing  the 
important  guest  of  the  evening.  The  girl  laugh- 
ingly remarked  upon  the  fact  to  the  duke : 

"  They  will  say  that  I  am  appropriating  you." 

She  pointed  to  Monpavon  standing  expectantly 
by  the  Nabob,  who,  from  afar,  bestowed  upon  Pi  is 
Excellency  the  submissive,  imploring  gaze  of  a 
great  faithful  dog.  Thereupon  the  Minister  of 
State  remembered  what  had  brought  him  there. 
He  bowed  to  Felicia  and  returned  to  Monpavon, 
who  was  able  at  last  to  present  "  his  honorable 
friend,    Monsieur   Bernard    Jansoulet."     His    Ex- 


92  The  Nabob. 

cellency  bowed ;  the  parvenu  humbled  himself 
lower  than  the  earth;  then  they  conversed  for  a 
moment. 

It  was  an  interesting  group  to  watch.  Jansoulet, 
tall  and  strongly  built,  with  his  vulgar  manners,  his 
tanned  skin,  his  broad  back,  bent  as  if  it  had 
become  rounded  for  good  and  all  in  the  salaams 
of  Oriental  sycophancy,  his  short  fat  hands  bursting 
through  his  yellow  gloves,  his  abundant  panto- 
mime, his  Southern  exuberance  causing  him  to  cut 
off  his  words  as  if  with  a  machine.  The  other,  of 
noble  birth,  a  thorough  man  of  the  world,  elegance 
itself,  graceful  in  the  least  of  his  gestures,  which 
were  very  rare  by  the  way,  negligently  letting  fall 
incomplete  sentences,  lighting  up  his  grave  face 
with  a  half  smile,  concealing  beneath  the  most 
perfect  courtesy  his  boundless  contempt  for  men 
and  women  ;  and  that  contempt  was  the  main  ele- 
ment of  his  strength.  In  an  American  parlor  the 
antithesis  would  have  been  less  offensive.  The 
Nabob's  millions  would  have  established  equi- 
librium and  even  turned  the  scale  in  his  favor. 
But  Paris  does  not  as  yet  place  money  above  all  the 
other  powers,  and,  to  be  convinced  of  that  fact,  one 
had  only  to  see  that  stout  merchant  frisking  about 
with  an  amiable  smile  before  the  great  nobleman, 
and  spreading  beneath  his  feet,  like  the  courtier's 
ermine  cloak,  his  dense  parvenu's  pride. 

From  the  corner  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge, 
de  Gery  was  watching  the  scene  with  interest, 
knowing  what  importance  his  friend  attached  to 
this   presentation,   when   chance,   which    had    so 


A  Debtit  in  Society.  93 

cruelly  given  the  lie  all  the  evening  to  his  artless 
neophyte's  ideas,  brought  to  his  ears  this  brief 
dialogue,  in  that  sea  of  private  conversations  in 
which  every  one  hears  just  the  words  that  are  of 
interest  to  him : 

"The  least  that  Monpavon  can  do  is  to  introduce 
him  to  some  decent  people.  He  has  introduced 
him  to  so  many  bad  ones.  You  know  that  he  's 
just  tossed  Paganetti  and  his  whole  crew  into  his 
arms." 

"The  poor  devil !     Why,  they  '11  devour  him." 

"  Pshaw !  it 's  only  fair  to  make  him  disgorge  a 
little.  He  stole  so  much  down  there  among  the 
Turks." 

"  Really,  do  you  think  so?  " 

"  Do  I  think  so !  I  have  some  very  precise 
information  on  that  subject  from  Baron  Hemer- 
lingue,  the  banker  who  negotiated  the  last  Tunisian 
loan.  He  knows  some  fine  stories  about  this 
Nabob.     Just  fancy  —  " 

And  the  stream  of  calumny  began  to  flow.  For 
fifteen  years  Jansoulet  had  plundered  the  late  bey 
shamefully.  They  mentioned  the  names  of  con- 
tractors and  cited  divers  swindles  characterized  by 
admirable  coolness  and  effrontery;  for  instance, 
the  story  of  a  musical  frigate  — yes,  it  really  played 
tunes  —  intended  as  a  dining-room  ornament,  which 
he  bought  for  two  hundred  thousand  francs  and 
sold  again  for  ten  millions ;  a  throne  sold  to  the 
bey  for  three  millions,  whereas  the  bill  could  be 
seen  on  the  books  of  a  house  furnisher  of  Faubourg 
Saint-Honore,  and  amounted  to  less  than  a  hun- 


94  ^/^^  Nabob. 

dred  thousand  francs ;  and  the  most  comical  part 
of  it  was  that  the  bey's  fancy  changed  and  the 
royal  seat,  having  fallen  into  disgrace  before  it  had 
even  been  unpacked,  was  still  in  its  packing-case 
at  the  custom-house  in  Tripoli. 

Furthermore,  aside  from  these  outrageous  com- 
missions on  the  sale  of  the  most  trivial  playthings, 
there  were  other  far  more  serious  accusations,  but 
equally  authentic,  as  they  all  came  from  the  same 
source.  In  addition  to  the  seraglio  there  was  a 
harem  of  European  women,  admirably  equipped 
for  His  Highness  by  the  Nabob,  who  should  be  a 
connoisseur  in  such  matters,  as  he  had  been 
engaged  in  the  most  extraordinary  occupations  in 
Paris  before  his  departure  for  the  Orient:  ticket 
speculator,  manager  of  a  public  ball  at  the  barrier, 
and  of  a  house  of  much  lower  reputation.  And 
the  whispering  terminated  in  a  stifled  laugh,  —  the 
coarse  laugh  of  two  men  in  private  conversation. 

The  young  provincial's  first  impulse,  on  hearing 
those  infamous  slanders,  was  to  turn  ^nd  cry  out : 

"  You  lie  !  " 

A  few  hours  earlier  he  would  have  done  it  with- 
out hesitation,  but  since  he  had  been  there  he  had 
learned  to  be  suspicious,  sceptical.  He  restrained 
himself  therefore  and  listened  to  the  end,  standing 
in  the  same  spot,  having  in  his  heart  an  uncon- 
fessed  desire  to  know  more  of  the  man  in  whose 
service  he  was.  As  for  the  Nabob,  the  perfectly 
unconscious  subject  of  that  ghastly  chronicle,  he 
was  quietly  playing  a  game  of  ecarte  with  the 
Due  de  Mora  in  a  small  salon  to  which  the  blue 


A  Debut  ill  Society.  95 

hangings  and  two  shaded  lamps  imparted  a  medi- 
tative air. 

O  wonderful  magic  of  the  galleon  !  The  son  of 
the  dealer  in  old  iron  alone  at  a  card-table  with  the 
first  personage  of  the  Empire !  Jansoulet  could 
hardly  believe  the  Venetian  mirror  in  which  were 
reflected  his  resplendent,  beaming  face  and  that 
august  cranium,  divided  by  a  long  bald  streak. 
So  it  was  that,  in  order  to  show  his  appreciation 
of  that  great  honor,  he  strove  to  lose  as  many 
thousand-franc  notes  as  he  decently  could,  feeling 
that  he  was  the  winner  none  the  less,  and  proud  as 
Lucifer  to  see  his  money  pass  into  those  aristo- 
cratic hands,  whose  every  movement  he  studied 
while  they  were  cutting,  dealing,  or  holding  the 
cards. 

A  circle  formed  around  them,  but  at  a  respectful 
distance,  the  ten  paces  required  for  saluting  a 
prince ;  that  was  the  audience  of  the  triumph  at 
which  the  Nabob  was  present  as  if  in  a  dream, 
intoxicated  by  the  fairy-like  strains  slightly  muf- 
fled in  the  distance,  the  songs  that  reached  his 
ears  in  detached  phrases,  as  if  they  passed  over  a 
resonant  sheet  of  water,  the  perfume  of  the  flowers 
that  bloom  so  strangely  toward  the  close  of  Parisian 
balls,  when  the  late  hour,  confusing  all  notions  of 
time,  and  the  weariness  of  the  sleepless  night  com- 
municate to  brains  which  have  become  more  buoy- 
ant in  a  more  nervous  atmosphere  a  sort  of  youthful 
giddiness.  The  robust  nature  of  Jansoulet,  that 
civilized  savage,  was  more  susceptible  than  an- 
other to  these  strange  refinements;    and  he  had 


96  The  Nabob. 

to  exert  all  his  strength  to  refrain  from  inaugu- 
rating with  a  joyful  hurrah  an  unseasonable  out- 
pouring of  words  and  gestures,  from  giving  way 
to  the  impulse  of  physical  buoyancy  which  stirred 
his  whole  being;  like  the  great  mountain  dogs 
which  are  thrown  into  convulsions  of  epileptic 
frenzy  by  inhaling  a  single  drop  of  a  certain 
essence. 

"  It  is  a  fine  night  and  the  sidewalks  are  dry. 
If  you  like,  my  dear  boy,  we  will  send  away  the 
carriage  and  go  home  on  foot,"  said  Jansoulet  to 
his  companion  as  they  left  Jenkins'  house. 

De  Gery  eagerly  assented.  He  needed  to  walk, 
to  shake  off  in  the  sharp  air  the  infamies  and  lies 
of  that  society  comedy  which  left  his  heart  cold 
and  oppressed,  while  all  his  life-blood  had  taken 
refuge  in  his  temples,  of  whose  swollen  veins  he 
could  hear  the  beating.  He  walked  unsteadily, 
like  a  poor  creature  who  has  been  operated  on 
for  cataract  and  in  the  first  terror  of  recovered 
vision  dares  not  put  one  foot  before  the  other. 
But  with  what  a  brutal  hand  the  operation  had 
been  performed !  And  so  that  great  artist  with 
the  glorious  name,  that  pure,  wild  beauty,  the 
mere  sight  of  whom  had  agitated  him  like  a 
supernatural  apparition,  was  simply  a  courtesan. 
Madame  Jenkins,  that  imposing  creature,  whose 
manner  was  at  once  so  proud  and  so  sweet,  was 
not  really  Madame  Jenkins.  That  illustrious 
scientist,  so  frank  of  feature  and  so  hospitable, 
had  the  impudence  to  live  publicly  in  shameless 


A  Debut  in  Society.  97 

concubinage.  And  Paris  suspected  it,  yet  that  did 
not  prevent  Paris  from  attending  their  parties. 
Last  of  all,  this  Jansoulet,  so  kind-hearted  and 
generous,  for  whom  he  felt  such  a  burden  of 
gratitude  in  his  heart,  had  to  his  knowledge  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  a  crew  of  bandits,  being  himself 
a  bandit,  and  quite  worthy  of  the  scheme  devised 
to  make  him  disgorge  his  millions. 

Was  it  possible;   must  he  believe  it? 

A  sidelong  glance  at  the  Nabob,  whose  huge 
frame  filled  the  whole  sidewalk,  suddenly  revealed 
to  him  something  low  and  common  that  he  had 
not  before  noticed  in  that  gait  to  which  the  weight 
of  the  money  in  his  pockets  gave  a  decided  lurch. 
Yes,  he  was  the  typical  adventurer  from  the 
South,  moulded  of  the  slime  that  covers  the  quays 
of  Marseille,  trodden  hard  by  all  the  vagabonds  who 
wander  from  seaport  to  seaport.  Kind-hearted, 
generous,  forsooth  !  as  prostitutes  are,  and  thieves. 
And  the  gold  that  flowed  into  that  luxurious  and 
vicious  receptacle,  spattering  everything,  even  the 
walls,  seemed  to  him  now  to  bring  with  it  all  the 
dregs,  all  the  filth  of  its  impure  and  slimy  source. 
That  being  so,  there  was  but  one  thing  for  him, 
de  Gery,  to  do,  and  that  was  to  go,  to  leave  as 
soon  as  possible  the  place  where  he  ran  the  risk 
of  compromising  his  name,  all  that  there  was  of  his 
patrimony.  Of  course.  But  there  were  the  two 
little  brothers  down  yonder  in  the  provinces,  — 
who  would  pay  for  their  schooling?  Who  would 
keep  up  the  modest  home  miraculously  restored  by 
the  handsome  salary  of  the  oldest  son,  the  head  of 

VOL.  I.  —  7 


98  The  N'adod. 

the  family?  The  words  "  head  of  the  family"  cast 
him  at  once  into  one  of  those  inward  combats 
in  which  self-interest  and  conscience  are  the  con- 
tending parties  —  the  one  strong,  brutal,  attacking 
fiercely  with  straight  blows,  the  other  retreating, 
breaking  the  measure  by  suddenly  withdrawing  its 
weapon  —  while  honest  Jansoulet,  the  unconscious 
cause  of  the  conflict,  strode  along  beside  his  young 
friend,  inhaling  the  fresh  air  deHghtedly  with  the 
lighted  end  of  his  cigar. 

He  had  never  been  so  happy  that  he  was  alive. 
And  that  evening  at  Jenkins',  his  own  debut  in 
society  as  well  as  Paul's,  had  left  upon  him  an  im- 
pression of  arches  erected  as  if  for  a  triumph,  of  a 
curious  crowd,  of  flowers  thrown  in  his  path.  So 
true  is  it  that  things  exist  only  through  the  eyes 
that  see  them.  What  a  success  !  The  duke,  just 
as  they  parted,  urging  him  to  come  and  see  his 
gallery ;  which  meant  that  the  doors  of  the  hotel 
de  Mora  would  be  open  to  him  within  a  week. 
Felicia  Ruys  consenting  to  make  a  bust  of  him, 
so  that  at  the  next  exposition  the  junk-dealer's 
son  would  have  his  portrait  in  marble  by  the  same 
great  artist  whose  name  was  appended  to  that  of 
the  Minister  of  State.  Was  not  this  the  gratifica- 
tion of  all  his  childish  vanities? 

Revolving  thus  their  thoughts,  cheerful  or  sin- 
ister, they  walked  on  side  by  side,  preoccupied, 
distraught,  so  that  Place  Vendome,  silent  and 
flooded  by  a  cold,  blue  light,  rang  beneath  their 
feet  before  they  had  spoken  a  word. 

*'  Already !  "  said  the  Nabob.     "  I  would  have 


A  Debut  hi  Society.  99 

liked  to  walk  a  little  farther.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 
And  as  they  walked  around  the  square  two  or 
three  times,  he  emitted  in  puffs  the  exuberant  joy 
with  which  he  was  full  to  overflowing. 

"  How  fine  it  is !  What  pleasure  to  breathe ! 
God's  thunder !  I  would  n't  give  up  my  evening 
for  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  What  a  fine  fellow 
that  Jenkins  is !  Do  you  like  Felicia  Ruys'  type 
of  beauty?  For  my  part,  I  dote  on  it.  And  the 
duke,  what  a  perfect  great  nobleman !  so  simple, 
so  amiable.  That  is  fashionable  Paris,  eh,  my 
son?  " 

"  It 's  too  comphcated  for  me  —  it  frightens  me," 
said  Paul  de  Gery  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  rejoined  the  other,  with 
adorable  conceit.  "  You  are  n't  used  to  it  yet,  but 
one  soon  gets  into  it,  you  know !  See  how  per- 
fectly at  my  ease  I  am  after  only  a  month." 

"  That 's  because  you  had  been  in  Paris  before. 
You  used  to  live  here." 

"I?    Never  in  my  Hfe.     Who  told  you  that?  " 

"  Why,  I  thought  so,"  replied  the  young  man, 
and  added,  as  a  multitude  of  thoughts  came  crowd- 
ing into  his  mind : 

**  What  have  you  ever  done  to  this  Baron  Hem- 
erUngue?  There  seems  to  be  a  deadly  hatred 
between  you." 

The  Nabob  was  taken  aback  for  a  moment. 
That  name  Hemerlingue,  suddenly  obtruded  upon 
his  joy,  reminded  him  of  the  only  unpleasant 
episode  of  the  evening. 

"  To  him,  as  to  everybody  else,"  he  said  in  a  sad 


lOO  The  Nabob. 

voice,  "  I  never  did  anything  but  good.  We  began 
life  together  in  a  miserable  way.  We  grew  and 
prospered  side  by  side.  When  he  attempted  to  fly 
with  his  own  wings  I  always  assisted  him,  sup- 
ported him  as  best  I  could.  It  was  through  me 
that  he  had  the  contract  for  supplying  the  fleet 
and  army  for  ten  years ;  almost  the  whole  of  his 
fortune  comes  from  that.  And  then  one  fine 
morning  that  idiot  of  a  cold-blooded  Bearnese 
must  go  and  fall  in  love  with  an  odalisque  whom 
the  bey's  mother  had  turned  out  of  the  harem ! 
She  was  a  handsome,  ambitious  hussy;  she  made 
him  marry  her,  and  naturally,  after  that  excellent 
marriage,  Hemerlingue  had  to  leave  Tunis.  They 
had  made  him  believe  that  I  egged  the  bey  on  to 
forbid  him  the  country.  That  is  not  true.  On  the 
contrary,  I  persuaded  His  Highness  to  allow  the 
younger  Hemerlingue  —  his  first  wife's  child  —  to 
remain  at  Tunis  to  look  after  their  interests  there, 
while  the  father  came  to  Paris  to  establish  his 
banking-house.  But  I  was  well  repaid  for  my 
kindness.  When  my  poor  Ahmed  died  and  the 
moiichivy  his  brother,  ascended  the  throne,  the 
Hemerlingues,  being  restored  to  favor,  never 
ceased  to  try  to  injure  me  in  the  eyes  of  the  new 
master.  The  bey  was  always  pleasant  with  me, 
but  my  influence  was  impaired.  Ah  well !  in  spite 
of  all  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  tricks  Hemerlingue 
has  played  on  me  and  is  playing  on  me  still,  I  was 
ready  to  ofier  him  my  hand  to-night.  Not  only 
did  the  villain  refuse  it,  but  he  sent  his  wife  to 
insult  me,  —  an  uncivilized,  vicious  beast,  who  can 


A  Debut  in  Society.  loi 

never  forgive  me  for  refusing  to  receive  her  at 
Tunis.  Do  you  know  what  she  called  me  there 
to-night  when  she  passed  me?  *  Robber  and  son 
of  a  dog.'  The  harlot  had  the  face  to  call  me  that. 
As  if  I  did  n't  know  my  Hemerlingue,  who  's  as 
cowardly  as  he  is  fat.  But,  after  all,  let  them  say 
what  they  choose.  I  snap  my  fingers  at  'em. 
What  can  they  do  against  me?  Destroy  my  credit 
with  the  bey?  That  makes  no  difference  to  me. 
I  have  no  more  business  in  Tunis,  and  I  shall  get 
away  from  there  altogether  as  soon  as  possible. 
There  's  only  one  city,  one  country  in  the  world, 
and  that  is  Paris,  hospitable,  open-hearted  Paris, 
with  no  false  modesty,  where  any  intelligent  man 
finds  room  to  do  great  things.  And,  you  see, 
de  Gery,  I  propose  to  do  great  things.  I  've  had 
enough  of  business  life.  I  have  worked  twenty 
years  for  money ;  now  I  am  greedy  for  respect, 
glory,  renown.  I  mean  to  be  a  personage  of  some 
consequence  in  the  history  of  my  country,  and  that 
will  be  an  easy  matter  for  me.  With  my  great 
fortune,  my  knowledge  of  men  and  of  affairs,  with 
what  I  feel  here  in  my  head,  I  can  aspire  to  any- 
thing and  reach  any  eminence.  So  take  my  advice, 
my  dear  boy,  don't  leave  me,"  —  one  would  have 
said  he  was  answering  his  young  companion's 
secret  thought,  —  "  stick  loyally  to  my  ship.  The 
spars  are  stanch  and  the  hold  is  full  of  coal.  I 
swear  to  you  that  we  will  sail  far  and  fast, 
damme !  " 

The  artless  Southerner  thus  discharged  his  plans 
into  the  darkness  with  an  abundance  of  expressive 


I02  The  Nabob. 

gestures,  and  from  time  to  time,  as  they  paced  the 
vast,  deserted  square,  majestically  surrounded  by 
its  tightly-closed  silent  palaces,  he  looked  up 
toward  the  bronze  man  on  the  column,  as  if  calling 
to  witness  that  great  upstart,  whose  presence  in  the 
heart  of  Paris  justifies  the  most  extravagant  ambi- 
tions and  renders  all  chimeras  probable. 

There  is  in  youth  a  warmth  of 'heart,  a  craving 
for  enthusiasm  which  are  aroused  by  the  slightest 
breath.  As  the  Nabob  spoke,  de  Gery  felt  his  sus- 
picions vanishing  and  all  his  sympathy  reviving 
with  an  infusion  of  pity.  No,  surely  that  man  was 
no  vile  knave,  but  a  poor  deluded  mortal  whose 
fortune  had  gone  to  his  head,  like  a  wine  too 
powerful  for  a  stomach  that  has  long  slaked  its 
thirst  with  water.  Alone  in  the  midst  of  Paris, 
surrounded  by  enemies  and  sharpers,  Jansoulet 
reminded  him  of  a  pedestrian  laden  with  gold  pass- 
ing through  a  wood  haunted  by  thieves,  in  the  dark 
and  unarmed.  And  he  thought  that  it  would  be 
well  for  the  protege  to  watch  over  the  patron  with- 
out seeming  to  do  so,  to  be  the  clear-sighted  Te- 
lemachus  of  that  blind  Mentor,  to  point  out  the 
pitfalls  to  him,  to  defend  him  against  the  brigands, 
in  short  to  assist  him  to  fight  in  that  swarm  of 
nocturnal  ambuscades  which  he  felt  to  be  lurking 
savagely  about  the  Nabob  and  his  millions. 


TIte  Joyeuse  Family.  103 


V. 

THE  JOYEUSE   FAMILY. 

Every  morning  in  the  year,  at  precisely  eight 
o'clock,  a  new  and  almost  uninhabited  house  in 
an  out-of-the-way  quarter  of  Paris  was  filled  with 
shouts  and  cries  and  happy  laughter  that  rang  clear 
as  crystal  in  the  desert  of  the  hall. 

"  Father,  don't  forget  my  music." 

"  Father,  my  embroidery  cotton." 

"  Father,  bring  us  some  rolls." 

And  the  father's  voice  calling  from  below: 

"  Yaia,  throw  down  my  bag." 

"  Well,  upon  my  word !  he 's  forgotten  his 
bag." 

Thereupon  there  was  joyous  haste  from  top  to 
bottom  of  the  house,  a  running  to  and  fro  of  all 
those  pretty  faces,  heavy-eyed  with  sleep,  of  all 
those  touzled  locks  which  they  put  in  order  as 
they  ran,  up  to  the  very  moment  when  a  half- 
dozen  of  young  girls,  leaning  over  the  rail,  bade 
an  echoing  farewell  to  a  little  old  gentleman  neatly 
dressed  and  well  brushed,  whose  florid  face  and 
slight  figure  disappeared  at  last  in  the  convolu- 
tions of  the  staircase.     M.  Joyeuse  had  gone  to 


I04  The  Nabob. 

his  office.  Thereupon  the  whole  flock  of  fugitives 
from  the  bird-cage  ran  quickly  up  to  the  fourth 
floor,  and,  after  locking  the  door,  gathered  at  an 
open  window  to  catch  another  glimpse  of  the 
father.  The  little  man  turned,  kisses  were  ex- 
changed at  a  distance,  then  the  windows  were 
closed ;  the  new,  deserted  house  became  quiet 
once  more  except  for  the  signs  dancing  their  wild 
saraband  in  the  wind  on  the  unfinished  street,  as 
if  they  too  were  stirred  to  gayety  by  all  that 
manoeuvring,  A  moment  later  the  photographer 
on  the  fifth  floor  came  down  to  hang  his  show-ca«e 
at  the  door,  always  the  same,  with  the  old  gentle- 
man in  the  white  cravat  surrounded  by  his  daughters 
in  varied  groups ;  then  he  went  upstairs  again  in 
his  turn,  and  the  perfect  calm  succeeding  that  little 
matutinal  tumult  suggested  the  thought  that  "  the 
father  "  and  his  young  ladies  had  returned  to  the 
show-case,  where  they  would  remain  motionless 
and  smiling,  until  evening. 

From  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand  to  Messieurs  Hemer- 
lingue  and  Son's,  his  employers,  M.  Joyeuse  had  a 
walk  of  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  He  held  his 
head  erect  and  stiff,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  disar- 
ranging the  lovely  bow  of  his  cravat,  tied  by  his 
daughters,  or  his  hat,  put  on  by  them ;  and  when 
the  oldest,  always  anxious  and  prudent,  turned  up 
the  collar  of  his  overcoat  just  as  he  was  going  out, 
to  protect  him  against  the  vicious  gust  of  wind  at 
the  street  corner,  M,  Joyeuse,  even  when  the  tem- 
perature was  that  of  a  hothouse,  never  turned  it 
down  until  he  reached  the  office,  like  the  lover 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  105 

fresh  from  his  mistress's  embrace,  who  dares  not 
stir  for  fear  of  losing  the  intoxicating  perfume. 

The  excellent  man,  a  widower  for  some  years, 
lived  for  his  children  alone,  thought  only  of  them, 
went  out  into  the  world  surrounded  by  those  little 
blond  heads,  which  fluttered  confusedly  around 
him  as  in  a  painting  of  the  Assumption.  All  his 
desires,  all  his  plans  related  to  "  the  young  ladies  " 
and  constantly  returned  to  them,  sometimes  after 
long  detours  ;  for  M.  Joyeuse  — doubtless  because 
of  his  very  short  neck  and  his  short  figure,  in 
which  his  bubbling  blood  had  but  a  short  circuit 
to  make  — -possessed  an  astonishingly  fertile  im- 
agination. Ideas  formed  in  his  mind  as  rapidly  as 
threshed  straw  collects  around  the  hopper.  At 
the  office  the  figures  kept  his  mind  fixed  by  their 
unromantic  rigidity;  but  once  outside,  it  took  its 
revenge  for  that  inexorable  profession.  The  exer- 
cise of  walking  and  familiarity  with  a  route  of 
which  he  knew  by  heart  the  most  trivial  details, 
gave  entire 'liberty  to  his  imaginative  faculties,  and 
he  invented  extraordinary  adventures,  ample  mate- 
rial for  twenty  newspaper  novels. 

Suppose,  for  example,  that  M.  Joyeuse  were 
walking  through  Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  on  the 
right  hand  sidewalk  —  he  always  chose  that  side 
—  and  espied  a  heavy  laundress's  cart  going  along 
at  a  smart  trot,  driven  by  a  countrywoman  whose 
child,  perched  on  a  bundle  of  linen,  was  leaning 
over  the  side. 

"  The  child  !  "  the  good  man  would  exclaim  in 
dismay,  "  look  out  for  the  child  !  " 


io6  The  Nabob. 

His  voice  would  be  lost  in  the  clatter  of  the 
wheels  and  his  warning  in  the  secret  design  of 
Providence.  The  cart  would  pass  on.  He  would 
look  after  it  for  a  moment,  then  go  his  way ;  but 
the  drama  begun  in  his  mind  would  go  on  unfold- 
ing itself  there  with  numberless  sudden  changes. 
The  child  had  fallen.  The  wheels  were  just 
about  to  pass  over  him.  M.  Joyeuse  would  dart 
forward,  save  the  little  creature  on  the  very  brink 
of  death,  but  the  shaft  would  strike  himself  full  in 
the  breast,  and  he  would  fall,  bathed  in  his  blood. 
Thereupon  he  would  see  himself  carried  to  the 
druggist's  amid  the  crowd  that  had  collected. 
They  would  place  him  on  a  litter  and  carry  him 
home,  then  suddenly  he  would  hear  the  heart- 
rending cry  of  his  daughters,  his  beloved  daughters, 
upon  seeing  him  in  that  condition.  And  that  cry 
would  go  so  straight  to  his  heart,  he  would  hear  it 
so  distinctly,  so  vividly:  "  Papa,  dear  papa !  "  that 
he  would  repeat  it  himself  in  the  street,  to  the 
great  surprise  of  the  passers-by,  in  a  hoarse  voice 
which  would  wake  him  from  his  manufactured 
nightmare. 

Would  you  like  another  instance  of  the  vagaries 
of  that  prodigious  imagination?  It  rains,  it  hails; 
beastly  weather.  M.  Joyeuse  has  taken  the  omni- 
bus to  go  to  his  office.  As  he  takes  his  seat 
opposite  a  species  of  giant,  with  brutish  face  and 
formidable  biceps,  M.  Joyeuse,  an  insignificant 
little  creature,  with  his  bag  on  his  knees,  draws  in 
his  legs  to  make  room  for  the  enormous  pillars 
that   support   his    neighbor's    monumental   trunk. 


The  Joyeiise  Family.  107 

In  the  jolting  of  the  vehicle  and  the  pattering  of 
the  rain  on  the  windows,  M.  Joyeuse  begins  to 
dream.  And  suddenly  the  colossus  opposite,  who 
has  a  good-natured  face  enough,  is  amazed  to  see 
the  little  man  change  color  and  glare  at  him  with 
fierce,  murderous  eyes,  gnashing  his  teeth.  Yes, 
murderous  eyes  in  truth,  for  at  that  moment  M. 
Joyeuse  is  dreaming  a  terrible  dream.  One  of 
his  daughters  is  sitting  there,  opposite  him,  beside 
that  annoying  brute,  and  the  villain  is  putting  his 
arm  around  her  waist  under  her  cloak. 

"  Take  your  hand  away,  monsieur,"  M.  Joyeuse 
has  already  said  twice.  The  other  simply  laughs 
contemptuously.  Now  he  attempts  to  embrace 
Elise. 

"Ah!  villain!" 

Lacking  strength  to  defend  his  daughter,  M. 
Joyeuse,  foaming  with  rage,  feels  in  his  pocket 
for  his  knife,  stabs  the  insolent  knave  in  the  breast, 
and  goes  away  with  head  erect,  strong  in  the 
consciousness  of  his  rights  as  an  outraged  father, 
to  make  his  statement  at  the  nearest  police-station. 

"  I  have  just  killed  a  man  in  an  omnibus  !  " 

The  poor  fellow  wakes  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice  actually  uttering  those  sinister  words,  but 
not  at  the  police-station ;  he  realizes  from  the 
horrified  faces  of  the  passengers  that  he  must 
have  spoken  aloud,  and  speedily  avails  himself 
of  the  conductor's  call:  "Saint-Philippe  —  Pan- 
theon—  Bastille,"  to  alight,  in  dire  confusion  and 
amid  general  stupefaction. 

That  imagination,  always  on  the  alert,  gave  to 


io8  The  Nabob. 

M.  Joyeuse's  face  a  strangely  feverish,  haggard 
expression,  in  striking  contrast  to  the  faultlessly 
correct  dress  and  bearing  of  the  petty  clerk.  He 
lived  through  so  many  passionate  existences  in 
a  single  day.  Such  waking  dreamers  as  he,  in 
whom  a  too  restricted  destiny  holds  in  check  un- 
employed forces,  heroic  faculties,  are  more  numer- 
ous than  is  generally  supposed.  Dreaming  is  the 
safety  valve  through  which  it  all  escapes,  with  a 
terrible  spluttering,  an  intensely  hot  vapor  and 
floating  images  which  instantly  disappear.  Some 
come  forth  from  these  visions  radiant,  others 
downcast  and  abashed,  finding  themselves  once 
more  on  the  commonplace  level  of  everyday  life. 
M.  Joyeuse  was  of  the  former  class,  constantly 
soaring  aloft  to  heights  from  which  one  cannot 
descend  without  being  a  little  shaken  by  the 
rapidity  of  the  journey. 

Now,  one  morning  when  our  Iniaginah-e  had 
left  his  house  at  the  usual  hour  and  under  the 
usual  circumstances,  he  started  upon  one  of  his 
little  private  romances  as  he  turned  out  of  Rue 
Saint-Ferdinand.  The  end  of  the  year  was  close 
at  hand,  and  perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  a  board 
shanty  under  construction  in  the  neighboring 
woodyard  that  made  him  think  of  "  New  Year's 
gifts."  And  thereupon  the  word  bojius  planted 
itself  in  his  mind,  as  the  first  landmark  in  an 
exciting  story.  In  the  month  of  December  all 
Hemerlingue's  clerks  received  double  pay,  and  in 
small  households,  you  know,  a  thousand  ambitious 
or  generous  projects  are  based  upon  such  wind- 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  109 

falls,  —  presents  to  be  given,  a  piece  of  furniture 
to  be  replaced,  a  small  sum  tucked  away  in  a 
drawer  for  unforeseen  emergencies. 

The  fact  is  that  M.  Joyeuse  was  not  rich.  His 
wife,  a  Mademoiselle  de  Saint-Amand,  being  tor- 
mented with  aspirations  for  worldly  grandeur, 
had  established  the  little  household  on  a  ruinous 
footing,  and  in  the  three  years  since  her  death, 
although  Grandmamma  had  managed  affairs  so 
prudently,  they  had  not  been  able  as  yet  to  save 
anything,  the  burden  of  the  past  was  so  heavy. 
Suddenly  the  excellent  man  fancied  that  the 
honorarium  would  be  larger  than  usual  that  year 
on  account  of  the  increased  work  necessitated  by 
the  Tunisian  loan.  That  loan  was  a  very  hand- 
some thing  for  his  employers,  too  handsome  in- 
deed, for  M.  Joyeuse  had  taken  the  liberty  to  say 
at  the  office  that  on  that  occasion  "  Hemerlingue 
and  Son  had  shaved  the  Turk  a  little  too  close." 

"  Yes,  the  bonus  will  certainly  be  doubled," 
thought  the  visionary  as  he  walked  along;  and 
already  he  saw  himself,  a  month  hence,  ascending 
the  staircase  leading  to  Hemerlingue's  private 
office,  with  his  fellow-clerks,  for  their  New  Year's 
call.  The  banker  announced  the  good  news ; 
then  he  detained  M.  Joyeuse  for  a  private  inter- 
view. And  lo !  that  employer,  usually  so  cold, 
and  encased  in  his  yellow  fat  as  in  a  bale  of  raw 
silk,  became  affectionate,  fatherly,  communicative. 
He  wished  to  know  how  many  daughters  Joyeuse 
had. 

"I  have  three — that  is  to   say,  four.  Monsieur 


no  The  Nabob. 

le  Baron.  I  always  get  confused  about  them. 
The  oldest  one  is  such  a  little  woman." 

How  old  were  they? 

"  Aline  is  twenty,  Monsieur  le  Baron.  She 's 
the  oldest.  Then  we  have  Elise  who  is  eighteen 
and  preparing  for  her  examination,  Henriette  who 
is  fourteen,  and  Zaza  or  Yaia  who  is  only  twelve." 

The  pet  name  Yaia  amused  Monsieur  le  Baron 
immensely;  he  also  inquired  as  to  the  resources 
of  the  family. 

"  My  salary,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  nothing  but 
that.  I  had  a  little  money  laid  by,  but  my  poor 
wife's  sickness  and  the  girls'  education  —  " 

"  What  you  earn  is  not  enough,  my  dear  Joyeuse. 
I  raise  you  to  a  thousand  francs  a  month." 

"  Oh  !   Monsieur  le  Baron,  that  is  too  much  !" 

But,  although  he  had  uttered  this  last  phrase 
aloud,  in  the  face  of  a  policeman  who  watched 
with  a  suspicious  eye  the  little  man  who  gesticu- 
lated and  shook  his  head  so  earnestly,  the  poor 
visionary  did  not  awake.  He  joyously  imagined 
himself  returnmg  home,  telling  the  news  to  his 
daughters,  and  taking  them  to  the  theatre  in  the 
evening  to  celebrate  that  happy  day.  God  !  how 
pretty  the  Joyeuse  girls  were,  sitting  in  the  front  of 
their  box  !  what  a  nosegay  of  rosy  cheeks  !  And 
then,  on  the  next  day,  lo  and  behold  the  two  old- 
est are  sought  in  marriage  by  —  Impossible  to  say 
by  whom,  for  M.  Joyeuse  suddenly  found  himself 
under  the  porch  of  the  Hemerlingue  establish- 
ment, in  front  of  a  swing-door  surmounted  by  the 
words,  "  Counting  Room  "  in  gold  letters. 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  1 1 1 

"  I  shall  always  be  the  same,"  he  said  to  himself 
with  a  little  laugh,  wiping  his  forehead,  on  which 
the  perspiration  stood  in  beads. 

Put  in  good  humor  by  his  fancy,  by  the  blaz- 
ing fires  in  the  long  line  of  offices,  with  inlaid  floors 
and  wire  gratings,  keeping  the  secrets  confided  to 
them  in  the  subdued  light  of  the  ground  floor, 
where  one  could  count  gold  pieces  without  being 
dazzled  by  them,  M.  Joyeuse  bade  the  other  clerks 
a  cheery  good-morning,  and  donned  his  working- 
coat  and  black  velvet  cap.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
whistle  from  above ;  and  the  cashier,  putting  his 
ear  to  the  tube,  heard  the  coarse,  gelatinous  voice 
of  Hemerlingue,  the  only,  the  genuine  Hemer- 
lingue  —  the  other,  the  son,  was  always  absent  — 
asking  for  M.  Joyeuse.  What !  was  he  still  dream- 
ing? He  was  greatly  excited  as  he  took  the  little 
inner  stairway,  which  he  had  ascended  so  jauntily 
just  before,  and  found  himself  in  the  banker's 
office,  a  narrow  room  with  a  very  high  ceiling, 
and  with  no  other  furniture  than  green  curtains 
and  enormous  leather  arm-chairs,  proportioned  to 
the  formidable  bulk  of  the  head  of  the  house.  He 
was  sitting  there  at  his  desk,  which  his  paunch  pre- 
vented him  from  approaching,  corpulent,  puffing, 
and  so  yellow  that  his  round  face  with  its  hooked 
nose,  the  face  of  a  fat,  diseased  owl,  shone  like  a 
beacon  light  in  that  solemn,  gloomy  office.  A 
coarse,  Moorish  merchant  mouldering  in  the 
dampness  of  his  little  courtyard.  His  eyes 
gleamed  an  instant  beneath  his  heavy  slow-moving 
eyelids  when  the  clerk  entered;    he  motioned  to 


112  The  Nabob. 

him  to  approach,  and  slowly,  coldly,  with  frequent 
breaks  in  his  breathless  sentences,  instead  of:  "  M. 
Joyeuse,  how  many  daughters  have  you?"  he  said 
this: 

"  Joyeuse,  you  have  assumed  to  criticize  in  our 
offices  our  recent  operations  on  the  market  in  Tunis. 
No  use  to  deny  it.  What  you  said  has  been  re- 
peated to  me  word  for  word.  And  as  I  can't 
allow  such  things  from  one  of  my  clerks,  I  notify 
you  that  with  the  end  of  this  month  you  will  cease 
to  be  in  my  employ." 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  clerk's  face,  receded, 
returned,  causing  each  time  a  confused  buzzing  in 
his  ears,  a  tumult  of  thoughts  and  images  in  his 
brain. 

His  daughters ! 

What  would  become  of  them? 

Places  are  so  scarce  at  that  time  of  year ! 

Want  stared  him  in  the  face,  and  also  the  vision 
of  a  poor  devil  falling  at  Hemerlingue's  feet,  im- 
ploring him,  threatening  him,  leaping  at  his  throat 
in  an  outburst  of  desperate  frenzy.  All  this  agita- 
tion passed  across  his  face  like  a  gust  of  wind 
which  wrinkles  the  surface  of  a  lake,  hollowing  out 
shifting  caverns  of  all  shapes  therein  ;  but  he  stood 
mute  on  the  same  spot,  and  at  a  hint  from  his  em- 
ployer that  he  might  withdraw,  went  unsteadily 
down  to  resume  his  task  in  the  counting-room. 

That  evening,  on  returning  to  Rue  Saint-Ferdi- 
nand, M.  Joyeuse  said  nothing  to  his  daughters. 
He  dared  not.  The  thought  of  casting  a  shadow 
upon  that  radiant  gayety,  which  was  the  whole  life 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  113 

of  the  house,  of  dimming  with  great  tears  those 
sparkling  eyes,  seemed  to  him  unendurable. 
Moreover  he  was  timid  and  weak,  one  of  those 
who  always  say:  "Let  us  wait  till  to-morrow." 
So  he  waited  before  speaking,  in  the  first  place 
until  the  month  of  November  should  be  at  an  end, 
comforting  himself  with  the  vague  hope  that  Hem- 
erlingue  might  change  his  mind,  as  if  he  did  not 
know  that  unyielding  will,  like  the  flabby,  tena- 
cious grasp  of  a  mollusk  clinging  to  its  gold  ingot. 
Secondly,  when  his  accounts  were  settled  and  an- 
other clerk  had  taken  his  place  at  the  tall  desk  at 
which  he  had  stood  so  long,  he  hoped  speedily  to 
find  something  else  and  to  repair  the  disaster 
before  he  was  obliged  to  avow  it. 

Every  morning  he  pretended  to  start  for  the 
office,  allowed  himself  to  be  equipped  and  escorted 
to  the  door  as  usual,  his  great  leather  bag  all  ready 
for  the  numerous  parcels  he  was  to  bring  home  at 
night.  Although  he  purposely  forgot  some  of 
them  because  of  the  approach  of  the  perplexing 
close  of  the  month,  he  no  longer  lacked  time  in 
which  to  do  his  daughters'  errands.  He  had  his 
day  to  himself,  an  interminable  day,  which  he 
passed  in  running  about  Paris  in  search  of  a  place. 
They  gave  him  addresses  and  excellent  recommen- 
dations. But  in  that  month  of  December,  when 
the  air  is  so  cold  and  the  days  are  so  short,  a 
month  overburdened  with  expenses  and  anxieties, 
clerks  suffer  in  patience  and  employers  too. 
Every  one  tries  to  end  the  year  in  tranquillity,  post- 
poning to  the  month  of  January,  when  time  takes 

VOL.  I.  —  8 


114  ^'^^  Nabob. 

a  great  leap  onward  toward  another  station,  all 
changes,  ameliorations,  attempts  to  lead  a  new  life. 

Wherever  M.  Joyeuse  called,  he  saw  faces  sud- 
denly turn  cold  as  soon  as  he  explained  the  pur- 
pose of  his  visit.  "What!  you  are  no  longer  with 
Hemerlingue  and  Son?  How  does  that  happen?" 
He  would  explain  the  condition  of  affairs  as  best 
he  could,  attributing  it  to  a  caprice  of  his  employer, 
that  violent-tempered  Hemerlingue  whom  all  Paris 
knew;  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  cold,  suspicious 
accent  in  the  uniform  reply:  "  Come  and  see  us 
after  the  holidays."  And,  timid  as  he  was  at  best, 
he  reached  a  point  at  which  he  hardly  dared  apply 
anywhere,  but  would  walk  back  and  forth  twenty 
times  in  front  of  the  same  door,  nor  would  he  ever 
have  crossed  the  threshold  but  for  the  thought  of 
his  daughters.  That  thought  alone  would  grasp 
his  shoulder,  put  heart  into  his  legs  and  send  him 
to  opposite  ends  of  Paris  in  the  same  day,  to 
exceedingly  vague  addresses  given  him  by  com- 
rades, to  a  great  bone-black  factory  at  Aubervil- 
liers,  for  instance,  where  they  made  him  call  three 
days  in  succession,  and  all  for  nothing. 

Oh  !  the  long  walks  in  the  rain  and  frost,  the 
closed  doors,  the  employer  who  has  gone  out  or 
has  visitors,  the  promises  given  and  suddenly  re- 
tracted, the  disappointed  hopes,  the  enervating 
effect  of  long  suspense,  the  humiliation  in  store 
for  every  man  who  asks  for  work,  as  if  it  were 
a  shameful  thing  to  be  without  it.  M.  Joyeuse 
experienced  all  those  heartsickening  details,  and 
he  learned  too  how  the  will  becomes  weary  and 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  115 

discouraged  in  the  face  of  persistent  ill-luck.  And 
you  can  imagine  whether  the  bitter  martyrdom 
of  "  the  man  in  search  of  a  place  "  was  inten- 
sified by  the  fantasies  of  his  imagination,  by  the 
chimeras  which  rose  before  him  from  the  pave- 
ments of  Paris,  while  he  pursued  his  quest  in 
every  direction. 

For  a  whole  month  he  was  like  one  of  those 
pitiful  marionettes  who  soliloquize  and  gesticulate 
on  the  sidewalks,  and  from  whom  the  slightest 
jostling  on  the  part  of  the  crowd  extorts  a  som- 
nambulistic ejaculation :  "  I  said  as  much,"  or 
"  Don't  you  doubt  it,  monsieur."  You  pass  on, 
you  almost  laugh,  but  you  are  moved  to  pity  at 
the  unconsciousness  of  those  poor  devils,  possessed 
by  a  fixed  idea,  blind  men  led  by  dreams,  drawn 
on  by  an  invisible  leash.  The  terrible  feature  of 
it  all  was  this,  that  when  M.  Joyeuse  returned 
home,  after  those  long,  cruel  days  of  inaction  and 
fatigue,  he  must  enact  the  comedy  of  the  man 
returning  from  work,  must  describe  the  events  of 
the  day,  tell  what  he  had  heard,  the  gossip  of  the 
office,  with  which  he  was  always  accustomed  to 
entertain  the  young  ladies. 

In  humble  households  there  is  always  one  name 
that  comes  to  the  lips  more  frequently  than  others, 
a  name  that  is  invoked  on  days  of  disaster,  that 
plays  a  part  in  every  wish,  in  every  hope,  even  in 
the  play  of  the  children,  who  are  permeated  with 
the  idea  of  its  importance,  a  name  that  fills  the 
role  of  a  sub-providence  in  the  family,  or  rather 
of  a  supernatural  household  god.     It  is  the  name 


1 1 6  The  Nabob. 

of  the  employer,  the  manager  of  the  factory,  the 
landlord,  the  minister,  the  man,  in  short,  who 
holds  in  his  powerful  hand  the  welfare,  the  very 
existence  of  the  family.  In  the  Joyeuse  household 
it  was  Hemerlingue,  always  Hemerlingue ;  ten, 
twenty  times  a  day  the  name  was  mentioned  in 
the  conversation  of  the  girls,  who  associated  it 
with  all  their  plans,  with  the  most  trivial  details 
of  their  girlish  ambitions  :  "  If  Hemerlingue  would 
consent.  It  all  depends  on  Hemerlingue."  And 
nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  the  familiar 
way  in  which  those  children  spoke  of  the  wealthy 
boor  whom  they  had  never  seen. 

They  asked  questions  about  him.  Had  their 
father  spoken  to  him?  Was  he  in  good  humor? 
To  think  that  all  of  us,  however  humble  we  may 
be,  however  cruelly  enslaved  by  destiny,  have 
always  below  us  some  poor  creature  more  humble, 
more  enslaved  than  ourselves,  in  whose  eyes  we 
are  great,  in  whose  eyes  we  are  gods,  and,  as  gods, 
indifferent,  scornful  or  cruel. 

We  can  fancy  M.  Joyeuse's  torture  when  he 
was  compelled  to  invent  incidents,  to  manufacture 
anecdotes  concerning  the  villain  who  had  dismissed 
him  so  heartlessly  after  ten  years  of  faithful  service. 
However,  he  played  his  little  comedy  in  such  way 
as  to  deceive  them  all  completely.  They  had 
noticed  only  one  thing,  and  that  was  that  their 
father,  on  returning  home  at  night,  always  had  a 
hearty  appetite  for  the  evening  meal,  I  should 
say  as  much !  Since  he  had  lost  his  place,  the 
poor  man  had  ceased  to  eat  any  luncheon. 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  117 

The  days  passed.  M.  Joyeuse  found  nothing. 
Yes,  he  was  offered  a  clerkship  at  the  Caisse 
Territoriale,  which  he  declined,  being  too  well 
acquainted  with  the  banking  operations,  with  all 
the  nooks  and  corners  of  financial  Bohemia  in 
general  and  the  Caisse  Territoriale  in  particular, 
to  step  foot  in  that  den. 

"But,"  said  Passajon — for  it  was  Passajon,  who, 
happening  to  meet  the  good  man  and  finding  that 
he  was  unemployed,  had  spoken  to  him  of  taking 
service  with  Paganetti  — "  but  I  tell  you  again 
that  it 's  all  right.  We  have  plenty  of  money. 
We  pay  our  debts,  I  have  been  paid ;  just  see 
what  a  dandy  I  am." 

In  truth,  the  old  clerk  had  a  new  livery,  and  his 
paunch  protruded  majestically  beneath  his  tunic 
with  silver  buttons.  For  all  that,  M.  Joyeuse  had 
withstood  the  temptation,  even  after  Passajon,  open- 
ing wide  his  bulging  eyes,  had  whispered  with  em- 
phasis in  his  ear  these  words  big  with  promise: 

"The  Nabob  is  in  it." 

Even  after  that,  M.  Joyeuse  had  had  the  courage 
to  say  no.  Was  it  not  better  to  die  of  hunger 
than  to  enter  the  service  of  an  unsubstantial  house 
whose  books  he  might  some  day  be  called  upon 
to  examine  as  an  expert  before  a  court  of  justice? 

So  he  continued  to  wander  about;  but  he  was 
discouraged  and  had  abandoned  his  search  for  em- 
ployment. As  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  remain 
away  from  home,  he  loitered  in  front  of  the  shop- 
windows  on  the  quays,  leaned  for  hours  on  the 
parapets,  watching  the    river   and    the  boats  dis- 


ii8  Tlie  Nabob. 

charging  their  cargoes.  He  became  one  of  those 
idlers  whom  we  see  in  the  front  rank  of  all  street 
crowds,  taking  refuge  from  a  shower  under  porches, 
drawing  near  the  stoves  on  which  the  asphalters 
boil  their  tar  in  the  open  air,  to  warm  themselves, 
and  sinking  on  benches  along  the  boulevard  when 
their  feet  can  no  longer  carry  them. 

What  an  excellent  way  of  lengthening  one's  days, 
to  do  nothing ! 

On  certain  days,  however,  when  M.  Joyeuse  was 
too  tired  or  the  weather  too  inclement,  he  waited 
at  the  end  of  the  street  until  the  young  ladies  had 
closed  their  window,  then  went  back  to  the  house, 
hugging  the  walls,  hurried  upstairs,  holding  his 
breath  as  he  passed  his  own  door,  and  took  refuge 
with  the  photographer,  Andre  Maranne,  who,  being 
aware  of  his  catastrophe,  offered  him  the  compas- 
sionate welcome  which  poor  devils  extend  to  one 
another.  Customers  are  rare  so  near  the  barriers. 
He  would  sit  for  many  hours  in  the  studio,  talking 
in  an  undertone,  reading  by  his  friend's  side,  listen- 
ing to  the  rain  on  the  window-panes  or  the  wind 
whistling  as  in  mid-ocean,  rattling  the  old  doors 
and  window-frames  in  the  graveyard  of  demolished 
buildings  below.  On  the  next  floor  he  heard 
familiar  sounds,  full  of  charm  for  him,  snatches  of 
song  accompanying  the  work  of  willing  hands,  a 
chorus  of  laughter,  the  piano  lesson  given  by  Grand- 
manuna,  the  tic-tac  of  the  metronome,  a  delicious 
domestic  hurly-burly  that  warmed  his  heart.  He 
lived  with  his  darlings,  who  certainly  had  no  idea 
that  they  had  him  so  near  at  hand. 


The  Joycuse  Family.  1 1 9 

Once,  while  Maranne  was  out,  M.  Joyeuse,  acting 
as  a  faithful  custodian  of  the  studio  and  its  brand- 
new  equipment,  heard  two  little  taps  on  the  ceiling 
of  the  fourth  floor,  two  separate,  very  distinct  taps, 
then  a  cautious  rumbling  like  the  scampering  of  a 
mouse.  The  intimacy  between  the  photographer 
and  his  neighbors  justified  this  prisoner-like  method 
of  communication,  but  what  did  that  mean?  How 
should  he  answer  what  seemed  like  a  call?  At  all 
hazards  he  repeated  the  two  taps,  the  soft  drum- 
ming sound,  and  the  interview  stopped  there. 
When  Andre  Maranne  returned,  he  explained  it. 
It  was  very  simple:  sometimes,  during  the  day, 
the  young  ladies,  who  never  saw  their  neighbor 
except  in  the  evening,  took  that  means  of  inquir- 
ing for  his  health  and  whether  business  was  im- 
proving. The  signal  he  had  heard  signified :  "  Is 
business  good  to-day?"  and  M.  Joyeuse  had  in- 
stinctively but  unwittingly  replied  :  "  Not  bad  for 
the  season."  Although  young  Maranne  blushed 
hotly  as  he  said  it,  M.  Joyeuse  believed  him.  But 
the  idea  of  frequent  communication  between  the 
two  households  made  him  fear  lest  his  secret  should 
be  divulged,  and  thereafter  he  abstained  from  what 
he  called  his  "  artistic  days."  However,  the  time 
was  drawing  near  when  he  could  no  longer  conceal 
his  plight,  for  the  end  of  the  month  was  at  hand, 
complicated  by  the  end  of  the  year. 

Paris  was  already  assuming  the  usual  festal  aspect 
of  the  last  weeks  of  December.  That  is  about  all 
that  is  left  in  the  way  of  national  or  popular  merry- 
making.     The    revels    of  the    carnival   died   with 


I20  The  Nabob. 

Gavarni,  the  religious  festivals,  the  music  of  which 
we  scarcely  hear  above  the  din  of  the  streets, 
seclude  themselves  behind  the  heavy  church  doors, 
the  Fifteenth  of  August  has  never  been  aught  but 
the  Saint-Charlemagne  of  the  barracks ;  but  Paris 
has  retained  its  respect  for  the  first  day  of  the 
year. 

Early  in  December  a  violent  epidemic  of  child- 
ishness is  apparent  in  the  streets.  Wagons  pass, 
laden  with  gilded  drums,  wooden  horses,  playthings 
by  the  score.  In  the  manufacturing  districts,  from 
top  to  bottom  of  the  five-story  buildings,  former 
palaces  of  the  Marais,  where  the  shops  have  such 
lofty  ceilings  and  stately  double  doors,  people 
work  all  night,  handling  gauze,  flowers  and  straw, 
fastening  labels  on  satin-covered  boxes,  sorting 
out,  marking  and  packing;  the  innumerable  de- 
tails of  the  toy  trade,  that  great  industry  upon 
which  Paris  places  the  sign-manual  of  its  refined 
taste.  There  is  a  smell  of  green  wood,  of  fresh 
paint,  of  glistening  varnish,  and  in  the  dust  of  the 
garrets,  on  the  rickety  stairways  where  the  com- 
mon people  deposit  all  the  mud  through  which 
they  have  tramped,  chips  of  rosewood  are  strewn 
about,  clippings  of  satin  and  velvet,  bits  of  tinsel, 
all  the  debris  of  the  treasures  employed  to  dazzle 
childish  eyes.  Then  the  shop-windows  array  them- 
selves. Behind  the  transparent  glass  the  gilt  bind- 
ing of  gift-books  ascends  like  a  gleaming  wave 
under  the  gas-lights,  rich  stuffs  of  kaleidoscopic, 
tempting  hues  display  their  heavy,  graceful  folds, 
while  the  shop-girls,  with  their  hair  piled  high  upon 


The  Joyeusc  Family.  121 

theii  heads  and  ribbons  around  their  necks,  puff 
their  wares  with  the  Httle  finger  in  the  air,  or  fill 
silk  bags,  into  which  the  bonbons  fall  like  a  shower 
of  pearls. 

But  face  to  face  with  this  bourgeois  industry, 
firmly  established  and  intrenched  behind  its  gor- 
geous shop  fronts,  is  the  ephemeral  industry 
carried  on  in  the  stalls  built  of  plain  boards, 
open  to  the  wind  from  the  street,  standing  in  a 
double  row  which  gives  the  boulev^ard  the  aspect 
of  a  foreign  market  place.  There  are  to  be  found 
the  real  interest,  the  poetry  of  New  Year's  gifts. 
Luxurious  in  the  Madeleine  quarter,  less  ostenta- 
tious toward  Boulevard  Saint-Denis,  cheaper  and 
more  tawdry  as  you  approach  the  Bastille,  these 
little  booths  change  their  character  to  suit  their 
customers,  estimate  their  chances  of  success  ac- 
cording to  the  condition  of  the  purses  of  the 
passers-by.  Between  them  stand  tables  covered 
with  trifles,  miracles  of  the  petty  Parisian  trades, 
made  of  nothing,  fragile  and  insignificant,  but 
sometimes  whirled  away  by  fashion  in  one  of 
its  fierce  gusts,  because  of  their  very  lightness. 
And  lastly,  along  the  sidewalks,  \ost  in  the  line 
of  vehicles  which  brush  against  them  as  they 
stroll  along,  the  orange-women  put  the  final 
touch  to  this  ambulatory  commerce,  heaping  up 
the  sun-colored  fruit  under  their  red  lanterns,  and 
crying:  "La  Valence !"  in  the  fog,  the  uproar, 
the  excessive  haste  with  which  Paris  rushes  to 
meet  the  close  of  the  year. 

Ordinarily  M.  Joyeuse  made  a  part  of  the  happy 


122  The  Nabob. 

crowd  that  throngs  the  streets  with  a  jingling  of 
money  in  the  pockets  and  packages  in  every  hand. 
He  would  run  about  with  Grandmamma  in  quest  of 
presents  for  the  young  ladies,  stopping  in  front  of 
the  booths  of  the  small  shopkeepers  whom  the 
slightest  indication  of  a  customer  excites  beyond 
measure,  for  they  are  unfamiliar  with  the  art  of 
selling  and  have  based  upon  that  brief  season 
visions  of  extraordinary  profits.  And  there  would 
be  consultations  and  meditations,  a  never-ending 
perplexity  as  to  the  final  selection  in  that  busy 
little  brain,  always  in  advance  of  the  present  and 
of  the  occupation  of  the  moment. 

But  that  year,  alas !  there  was  nothing  of  the 
sort.  He  wandered  sadly  through  the  joyous  city, 
sadder  and  more  discouraged  by  reason  of  all  the 
activity  around  him,  jostled  and  bumped  like  all 
those  who  impede  the  circulation  of  the  indus- 
trious, his  heart  beating  with  constant  dread,  for 
Grajidmamma ,  for  several  days  past,  had  been 
making  significant,  prophetic  remarks  at  table  on 
the  subject  of  New  Year's  gifts.  For  that  reason 
he  avoided  being  left  alone  with  her  and  had  for- 
bidden her  coming  to  meet  him  at  the  office.  But, 
struggle  as  he  would,  the  time  was  drawing  near, 
he  felt  it  in  his  bones,  when  further  mystery  would 
be  impossible  and  his  secret  would  be  divulged. 
Was  this  Grandmamma  of  whom  M.  Joyeuse  stood 
in  such  fear  such  a  terrible  creature,  pray?  Mon 
Vieu,  no  !  A  little  stern,  that  was  all,  with  a  sweet 
smile  which  promised  instant  pardon  to  every  cul- 
prit.    But  M.  Joyeuse  was  naturally  cowardly  and 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  123 

timid  ;  twenty  years  of  housekeeping  with  a  master- 
ful woman,  "  a  person  of  gentle  birth,"  had  enslaved 
him  forever,  like  those  convicts  who  are  subjected 
to  surveillance  for  a  certain  period  after  their  sen- 
tences have  expired.  And  he  was  subjected  to  it 
for  life. 

One  evening  the  Joyeuse  family  was  assembled 
in  the  small  salon,  the  last  relic  of  its  splendor, 
where  there  still  were  two  stuffed  arm-chairs,  an 
abundance  of  crochet-work,  a  piano,  two  Carcel 
lamps  with  little  green  caps,  and  a  small  table 
covered  with  trivial  ornaments. 

The  true  family  exists  only  among  the  lowly. 

For  economy's  sake  only  one  fire  was  lighted 
for  the  whole  house,  and  only  one  lamp  around 
which  all  their  occupations,  all  their  diversions 
were  grouped ;  an  honest  family  lamp,  whose  old- 
fashioned  shade  —  with  night  scenes,  studded 
with  brilliant  points  —  had  been  the  wonder  and 
the  delight  of  all  the  girls  in  their  infancy. 
Emerging  gracefully  from  the  shadow  of  the  rest 
of  the  room,  four  youthful  faces,  fair  or  dark, 
smiling  or  engrossed,  bent  forward  in  the  warm, 
cheerful  rays,  which  illumined  them  to  the  level 
of  the  eyes  and  seemed  to  feed  the  fire  of  their 
glances,  the  radiant  youth  beneath  their  trans- 
parent brows,  to  watch  over  them,  to  shelter 
them,  to  protect  them  from  the  black  cold 
wind  without,  from  ghosts,  pitfalls,  misery  and 
terror,  from  all  the  sinister  things  that  lurk  in 
an  out-of-the-way  quarter  of  Paris  on  a  winter's 
night. 


124  ^-^^  Nabob. 

Thus  assembled  in  a  small  room  near  the  top  of 
the  deserted  house,  in  the  warmth  and  security  of 
its  neatly  kept  and  comfortable  home,  the  Joyeuse 
family  resembles  a  family  of  birds  in  a  nest  at  the 
top  of  a  tall  tree.  They  sew  and  read  and  talk  a 
little.  A  burst  of  flame,  the  crackling  of  the  fire, 
are  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard,  save  for  an  occa- 
sional exclamation  from  M.  Joyeuse,  who  sits  just 
outside  of  his  little  circle,  hiding  in  the  shadow  his 
anxious  brow  and  all  the  vagaries  of  his  imagina- 
tion. Now  he  fancies  that,  in  the  midst  of  the 
distress  by  which  he  is  overwhelmed,  the  absolute 
necessity  of  confessing  everything  to  his  children 
to-night,  to-morrow  at  latest,  unforeseen  succor 
comes  to  him.  Hemerlingue,  seized  with  remorse, 
sends  to  him,  to  all  the  others  who  worked  on  the 
Tunisian  loan,  the  accustomed  December  bonus. 
It  is  brought  by  a  tall  footman  :  "  From  Monsieur 
le  Baron."  The  Imaginaire  says  this  aloud.  The 
pretty  faces  turn  to  look  at  him ;  they  laugh  and 
move  about,  and  the  poor  wretch  wakes  with  a 
start. 

Oh !  how  he  reviles  himself  now  for  his  delay  in 
confessing  everything,  for  the  fallacious  security 
which  he  has  encouraged  in  his  home  and  which 
he  will  have  to  destroy  at  one  blow.  Why  need  he 
have  criticised  that  Tunisian  loan?  He  even 
blames  himself  now  for  having  declined  a  position 
at  the  Caisse  Territorinle.  Had  he  the  right  to 
decline  it?  Ah!  what  a  pitiful  head  of  a  family, 
who  lacked  strength  to  maintain  or  to  defend  the 
welfare  of  his  dear  ones.     And,  in  presence  of  the 


The  Joyeuse  Family.  125 

charming  group  sitting  within  the  rays  of  the  lamp, 
whose  tranquil  aspect  is  in  such  glaring  contrast  to 
his  inward  agitation,  he  is  seized  with  remorse, 
which  assails  his  feeble  mind  so  fiercely  that  his 
secret  comes  to  his  lips,  is  on  the  point  of  escaping 
him  in  an  outburst  of  sobs,  when  a  ring  at  the  bell 
—  not  an  imaginary  ring — startles  them  all  and 
checks  him  as  he  is  about  to  speak. 

Who  could  have  come  at  that  hour?  They  had 
lived  in  seclusion  since  the  mother's  death,  receiv- 
ing almost  no  visitors.  Andre  Maranne,  when  he 
came  down  to  pass  a  few  moments  with  them, 
knocked  familiarly  after  the  manner  of  those  to 
whom  a  door  is  always  open.  Profound  silence  in 
the  salon,  a  long  colloquy  on  the  landing.  At  last 
the  old  servant  —  she  had  been  in  the  family  as 
long  as  the  lamp  —  introduced  a  young  man,  a 
perfect  stranger,  who  stopped  suddenly,  spellbound, 
at  sight  of  the  charming  picture  presented  by  the 
four  darlings  grouped  about  the  table.  He  entered 
with  an  abashed,  somewhat  awkward  air.  How- 
ever, he  set  forth  very  clearly  the  purpose  of  his 
call.  He  was  recommended  to  apply  to  M. 
Joyeuse  by  a  worthy  man  of  his  acquaintance,  old 
Passajon,  to  give  him  lessons  in  book-keeping.  A 
friend  of  his  was  involved  in  some  large  financial 
enterprises,  a  stock  company  of  some  size.  He 
was  anxious  to  be  of  service  to  him  by  keeping 
an  eye  upon  the  employment  of  his  funds  and  the 
rectitude  of  his  associates'  operations ;  but  he  was 
a  lawyer,  with  a  very  imperfect  knowledge  of  finan- 
cial matters  and   the   vernacular  of  the   banking 


126  The  Nabob. 

business.  Could  not  M.  Joyeuse,  in  a  few  months, 
with  three  or  four  lessons  a  week  —  " 

"  Why,  yes  indeed,  monsieur,  yes  indeed,"  stam- 
mered the  father,  dazed  by  this  unhoped-for 
chance ;  "  I  will  willingly  undertake  to  fit  you  in  a 
month  or  two  for  this  work  of  examining  accounts. 
Where  shall  we  have  the  lessons?" 

"  Here,  if  you  please,"  said  the  young  man,  "  for 
I  am  anxious  that  nobody  should  know  that  I  am 
working  at  it.  But  I  shall  be  very  sorry  if  I  am  to 
put  everybody  to  flight  every  time  I  appear,  as  I 
seem  to  have  done  this  evening." 

It  was  a  fact  that,  as  soon  as  the  visitor  opened 
his  mouth,  the  four  curly  heads  had  disappeared, 
with  much  whispering  and  rustling  of  skirts,  and 
the  salon  appeared  very  bare  now  that  the  great 
circle  of  white  light  was  empty. 

Always  quick  to  take  alarm  where  his  daughters 
were  concerned,  M.  Joyeuse  replied  that  "  the 
young  ladies  always  retired  early,"  in  a  short,  sharp 
tone  which  said  as  plainly  as  could  be :  "  Let  us 
confine  our  conversation  to  our  lessons,  young 
man,  I  beg." 

Thereupon  they  agreed  upon  the  days  and  the 
hours  in  the  evening. 

As  for  the  terms,  that  would  be  for  monsieur  to 
determine. 

Monsieur  named  a  figure. 

The  clerk  turned  scarlet;  it  was  what  he  earned 
at  Hemerlingue's. 

"  Oh  !  no,  that  is  too  much." 

But  the  other  would  not  listen ;  he  hemmed  and 


The  Joycusc  Family.  127 

hawed  and  rolled  his  tongue  around  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  say  something  that  it  was  very  difficult 
to  say ;  then  with  sudden  resolution : 

"  Here  is  your  first  month's  pay." 

"But,  monsieur  —  " 

The  young  man  insisted.  He  was  a  stranger. 
It  was  fair  that  he  should  pay  in  advance.  Evi- 
dently Passajon  had  told  him.  M.  Joyeuse  un- 
derstood and  said,  beneath  his  breath :  "  Thanks, 
oh  !  thanks  !  "  so  deeply  moved  that  words  failed 
him.  Life,  it  meant  life  for  a  few  months,  time  to 
turn  around,  to  find  a  situation.  His  darlings 
would  be  deprived  of  nothing.  They  would  have 
their  New  Year's  gifts.     O  Providence  ! 

"  Until  Wednesday,  then,  Monsieur  Joyeuse," 

"  Until  Wednesday,  Monsieur ?  " 

"  De  Gery — Paul  de  Gery." 

They  parted,  equally  dazzled,  enchanted,  one  by 
the  appearance  of  that  unexpected  saviour,  the 
other  by  the  lovely  tableau  of  which  he  had  caught 
a  glimpse,  all  those  maidens  grouped  around  the 
table  covered  with  books  and  papers  and  skeins, 
with  an  air  of  purity,  of  hard-working  probity. 
That  sight  opened  up  to  de  Gery  a  whole  new 
Paris,  brave,  domestic,  very  different  from  that 
with  which  he  was  already  familiar,  a  Paris  of 
which  the  writers  of  feuilletons  and  the  reporters 
never  speak,  and  which  reminded  him  of  his 
province,  with  an  additional  element,  namely,  the 
charm  which  the  surrounding  hurly-burly  and  tur- 
moil impart  to  the  peaceful  shelter  that  they  do 
not  reach. 


128  The  Nabob, 


VI. 

FELICIA  RUYS. 

"  By  the  way,  what  have  you  done  with  your  son, 
Jenkins?  Why  do  we  never  see  him  at  your  house 
now?     He  was  an  attractive  boy." 

As  she  said  this  in  the  tone  of  disdainful  acerbity 
in  which  she  ahvays  addressed  the  Irishman,  FeHcia 
was  at  work  on  the  bust  of  the  Nabob  which  she 
had  just  begun,  adjusting  her  model,  taking  up  and 
putting  down  the  modelling  tool,  wiping  her  hands 
with  a  quick  movement  on  the  little  sponge,  while 
the  light  and  peace  of  a  lovely  Sunday  afternoon 
flooded  the  circular  glass-walled  studio.  Felicia 
"  received  "  every  Sunday,  if  receiving  consisted  in 
leaving  her  door  open  and  allowing  people  to  come 
and  go  and  sit  down  a  moment,  without  stirring 
from  her  work  for  them,  or  even  breaking  off  a 
discussion  she  might  have  begun,  to  welcome  new 
arrivals.  There  were  artists  with  shapely  heads 
and  bright  red  beards,  and  here  and  there  the  white 
poll  of  an  old  man,  sentimental  friends  of  the  elder 
Ruys ;  then  there  were  connoisseurs,  men  of  the 
world,  bankers,  brokers,  and  some  young  swells 
who  came  rather  to  see  the  fair  sculptress  than 


Felicia  Ruys.  I29 

her  sculpture,  so  that  they  would  have  the  right  to 
say  that  evening  at  the  club :  "  I  was  at  Felicia's 
to-day."  Among  them  Paul  de  Gery,  silent,  en- 
grossed by  an  admiration  which  sank  a  little  deeper 
in  his  heart  day  by  day,  strove  to  comprehend  the 
beautiful  sphinx,  arrayed  in  purple  cashmere  and 
unbleached  lace,  who  worked  bravely  away  in  the 
midst  of  her  clay,  a  burnisher's  apron  —  reaching 
nearly  to  the  neck  —  leaving  naught  visible  save  the 
proud  little  face  with  those  transparent  tones,  those 
gleams  as  of  veiled  rays  with  which  intellect  and 
inspiration  give  animation  to  the  features.  Paul 
never  forgot  what  had  been  said  of  her  in  his 
presence,  he  tried  to  form  an  opinion  for  himself, 
was  beset  by  doubt  and  perplexity,  yet  fascinated ; 
vowed  every  time  that  he  would  never  come  again, 
yet  never  missed  a  Sunday.  There  was  another 
fixture,  always  in  the  same  spot,  a  little  woman 
with  gray,  powdered  hair  and  a  lace  handkerchief 
around  her  pink  face ;  a  pastel  somewhat  worn  by 
years,  who  smiled  sweetly  in  the  discreet  light  of  a 
window  recess,  her  hands  lying  idly  upon  her  lap, 
in  fakir-like  immobility.  Jenkins,  always  in  good 
humor,  with  his  beaming  face,  his  black  eyes,  and 
his  apostolic  air,  went  about  from  one  to  another, 
known  and  loved  by  all.  He  too  never  missed  one 
of  Felicia's  days ;  and  in  very  truth  he  displayed 
great  patience,  for  all  the  sharp  words  of  the  artist 
and  of  the  pretty  woman  as  well  were  reserved  for 
him  alone.  Without  seeming  to  notice  it,  with  the 
same  smiling  indulgent  serenity,  he  continued  to 
court  the  society  of  the  daughter  of  his  old  friend 

VOL.  I.  — 9 


130  The  Nabob. 

Ruys,  of  whom  he  had  been  so  fond  and  whom  he 
had  attended  until  his  last  breath. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  the  question  that 
Felicia  propounded  to  him  on  the  subject  of  his 
son  seemed  to  him  extremely  disagreeable ;  and 
there  was  a  frown  upon  his  face,  a  genuine  expres- 
sion of  ill-humor,  as  he  replied  : 

"  Faith,  I  know  no  more  than  you  as  to  what  has 
become  of  him.  He  has  turned  his  back  upon  us 
altogether.  He  was  bored  with  us.  He  cares  for 
nothing  but  his  Bohemia—  " 

Felicia  gave  a  bound  which  made  them  all  start, 
and  with  flashing  eye  and  quivering  nostril  retorted  : 

"  That  is  too  much.  Look  you,  Jenkins,  what 
do  you  call  Bohemia?  A  charming  word,  by  the 
way,  which  should  evoke  visions  of  long  wandering 
jaunts  in  the  sunlight,  halting  in  shady  nooks,  the 
first  taste  of  luscious  fruits  and  sparkling  fountains, 
taken  at  random  on  the  highroads.  But  since  you 
have  made  of  the  word  with  all  the  charm  attach- 
ing to  it  a  stigma  and  an  insult,  to  whom  do  you 
apply  it?  To  certain  poor  long-haired  devils,  in 
love  with  freedom  in  rags  and  tatters,  who  starve  to 
death  on  fifth  floors,  looking  at  the  sky  at  too  close 
quarters,  or  seeking  rhymes  under  tiles  through 
which  the  rain  drips;  to  those  idiots,  fewer  and 
fewer  in  number,  who  in  their  horror  of  the  con- 
ventional, the  traditional,  of  the  dense  stupidity  of 
life,  have  taken  a  standing  jump  over  the  edge. 
But  that 's  the  way  it  used  to  be,  I  tell  you.  That 's 
the  Bohemia  of  Murger,  with  the  hospital  at  the 
end,  the  terror  of  children,  the  comfort  of  kindred, 


Felicia  Ruys.  131 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood  eaten  by  the  wolf.  That 
state  of  things  came  to  an  end  a  long  while  ago. 
To-day  you  know  perfectly  well  that  artists  are  the 
most  well-behaved  people  on  earth,  that  they  earn 
money,  pay  their  debts  and  do  their  best  to 
resemble  the  ordinary  man.  There  is  no  lack  of 
genuine  Bohemians,  however;  our  society  is  made 
up  of  them,  but  they  are  found  more  particularly 
in  your  circle.  Parblen  !  they  are  not  labelled  on 
the  outside,  and  no  one  distrusts  them ;  but  so  far 
as  the  uncertainty  of  existence  and  lack  of  order 
are  concerned,  they  have  no  reason  to  envy  those 
whom  they  so  disdainfully  call  '  irregulars.'  Ah  ! 
if  one  knew  all  the  baseness,  all  the  unheard-of, 
monstrous  experiences  that  may  be  masked  by  a 
black  coat,  the  most  correct  of  your  horrible 
modern  garments !  Jenkins,  at  your  house  the 
other  evening,  I  amused  myself  counting  all  those 
adventurers  of  high  —  " 

The  little  old  lady,  pink-cheeked  and  powdered, 
said  to  her  softly  from  her  seat : 

"  Felicia  —  take  care  —  " 

But  she  went  on  without  listening  to  her : 

"Who  is  this  Monpavon,  Doctor?  And  Bois- 
I'Hery?     And  Mora  himself  ?     And  —  " 

She  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  "  And  the 
Nabob?"  but  checked  herself. 

"  And  how  many  others  !  Oh  !  really,  I  advise 
you  to  speak  contemptuously  of  Bohemia.  Why, 
your  clientage  as  a  fashionable  physician,  O  sub- 
lime Jenkins,  is  made  up  of  nothing  else.  Bohemia 
of  manufacturing,  of  finance,    of  politics ;    fallen 


132  The  Nabob. 

stars,  the  tainted  of  all  castes,  and  the  higher  you 
go  the  more  of  them  there  are,  because  high  rank 
gives  impunity  and  wealth  closes  many  mouths," 

She  spoke  with  great  animation,  harshly,  her 
lip  curling  in  fierce  disdain.  The  other  laughed 
a  false  laugh  and  assumed  an  airy,  condescending 
tone,  "  Ah  !  madcap  !  madcap  !  "  And  his  glance, 
anxious  and  imploring,  rested  upon  the  Nabob, 
as  if  to  beseech  his  forgiveness  for  that  flood  of 
impertinent  paradoxes. 

But  Jansoulet,  far  from  appearing  to  be  vexed, 
—  he  who  was  so  proud  to  pose  for  that  lovely 
artist,  so  puffed  up  by  the  honor  conferred  upon 
him — nodded  his  head  approvingly, 

"  She  is  right,  Jenkins,"  he  said,  "  she  is  right. 
We  are  the  real  Bohemia,  Look  at  me,  for  in- 
stance, and  Hemerlingue,  two  of  the  greatest  hand- 
lers of  money  in  Paris.  When  I  think  where  we 
started  from,  all  the  trades  that  we  tried  our  hands 
at!  Hemerlingue,  an  old  regimental  sutler;  and 
myself,  who  carried  bags  of  grain  on  the  wharves 
at  Marseille  for  a  living.  And  then  the  strokes 
of  luck  by  which  our  fortunes  were  made,  as 
indeed  all  fortunes  are  made  nowadays.  Bless 
my  soul !  Just  look  under  the  peristyle  at  the 
Bourse  from  three  to  five.  But  I  beg  your 
pardon,  mademoiselle,  with  my  mania  for  gesticu- 
lating when  I  talk,  I've  spoiled  my  pose  —  let's 
see,  will  this  do?  " 

"It's  of  no  use,"  said  Felicia,  throwing  down 
her  modelling-tool  with  the  gesture  of  a  spoiled 
child.     "  I  can  do  nothing  more  to-day." 


Felicia  Ruys.  133 

She  was  a  strange  girl,  this  Felicia.  A  true 
child  of  an  artist,  a  genial  and  dissipated  artist, 
according  to  the  romantic  tradition,  such  as  Sebas- 
tien  Ruys  was.  She  had  never  known  her  mother, 
being  the  fruit  of  one  of  those  ephemeral  passions 
which  suddenly  enter  a  sculptor's  bachelor  life, 
as  swallows  enter  a  house  of  which  the  door  is 
always  open,  and  go  out  again  at  once,  because 
they  cannot  build  nests  there. 

On  that  occasion  the  lady,  on  taking  flight,  had 
left  with  the  great  artist,  then  in  the  neighborhood 
of  forty,  a  beautiful  child  whom  he  had  acknowl- 
edged and  reared,  and  who  became  the  joy  and 
passion  of  his  life.  Felicia  had  remained  with  her 
father  until  she  was  thirteen,  importing  a  childish, 
refining  element  into  that  studio  crowded  with 
idlers,  models,  and  huge  greyhounds  lying  at  full 
length  on  divans.  There  was  a  corner  set  aside 
for  her,  for  her  attempts  at  sculpture,  a  complete 
equipment  on  a  microscopic  scale,  a  tripod  and 
wax ;  and  old  Ruys  would  say  to  all  who  came  in  : 

"  Don't  go  over  there.  Don't  disturb  anything. 
That 's  the  little  one's  corner." 

The  result  was  that  at  ten  years  of  age  she 
hardly  knew  how  to  read  and  handled  the  model- 
ling-tool with  marvellous  skill.  Ruys  would  have 
liked  to  keep  the  child,  who  never  annoyed  him 
in  any  way,  with  him  permanently,  a  tiny  member 
of  the  great  brotherhood.  But  it  was  a  pitiful 
thing  to  see  the  little  maid  exposed  to  the  free  and 
easy  manners  of  the  habitues  of  the  house,  the 
\ncessant  going  and  coming  of  models,  the  discus- 


134  ^/^^'  Nabob. 

sions  concerning  an  art  that  is  purely  physical,  so 
to  speak;  and  at  the  uproarious  Sunday  dinner- 
table,  too,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  five  or  six  women, 
with  all  of  whom  her  father  was  on  the  most  inti- 
mate terms,  actresses,  dancers,  singers,  who,  when 
dinner  was  at  an  end,  smoked  with  the  rest,  their 
elbows  on  the  table,  revelling  in  the  salacious 
anecdotes  so  relished  by  the  master  of  the  house. 
Luckily,  childhood  is  protected  by  the  resistant 
power  of  innocence,  a  polished  surface  over  which 
all  forms  of  pollution  glide  harmlessly.  Felicia 
was  noisy,  uproarious,  badly  brought  up,  but  was 
untainted  by  all  that  passed  over  her  little  mind 
because  it  was  so  near  the  ground. 

Every  summer  she  went  to  pass  a  few  days  with 
her  godmother,  Constance  Crenmitz,  the  elder 
Crenmitz,  who  was  for  so  long  a  time  called  by 
all  Europe  the  "  illustrious  dancer,"  and  who  was 
living  quietly  in  seclusion  at  Fontainebleau. 

The  arrival  of  the  "  little  devil"  introduced  into 
the  old  lady's  life,  for  a  time,  an  element  of  ex- 
citement from  which  she  had  the  whole  year  to 
recover.  The  frights  that  the  child  caused  her 
with  her  audacious  exploits  in  leaping  and  riding, 
the  passionate  outbreaks  of  that  untamed  nature, 
made  the  visit  both  a  delight  and  a  terrible  trial  to 
her,  —  a  delight,  because  she  worshipped  Felicia,  the 
only  domestic  tie  left  the  poor  old  salamander,  re- 
tired after  thirty  years  oi  battus  in  the  glare  of  the 
footlights;  a  trial,  because  the  demon  pitilessly 
pillaged  the  ex-dancer's  apartments,  which  were 
as   dainty    and    neat  and    sweet-smelling   as   her 


Felicia  Ruys.  135 

dressing-room  at  the  Opera,  and  embellished  with 
a  museum  of  souvenirs  dated  from  all  the  theatres 
in  the  world. 

Constance  Crenmitz  was  the  sole  feminine  ele- 
ment in  FeHcia's  childhood.  Frivolous,  shallow, 
having  all  her  life  kept  her  mind  enveloped  in 
pink  swaddling-clothes,  she  had  at  all  events  a 
dainty  knack  at  housekeeping,  and  agile  fingers 
clever  at  sewing,  embroidering,  arranging  furni- 
ture, and  leaving  the  trace  of  their  deft,  pains- 
taking touch  in  every  corner  of  a  room.  She 
alone  undertook  to  train  that  wild  young  plant, 
and  to  awaken  with  care  the  womanly  instincts  in 
that  strange  creature,  on  whose  figure  cloaks  and 
furs,  all  the  elegant  inventions  of  fashion,  fell  in 
folds  too  stiff,  or  performed  other  strange  antics. 

It  was  the  dancer  again  —  surely  the  little  Ruys 
must  not  be  abandoned  —  who,  triumphing  over 
the  paternal  selfishness,  compelled  the  sculptor 
to  assent  to  a  necessary  separation,  when  Felicia 
was  twelve  or  thirteen  years  old ;  furthermore,  she 
assumed  the  responsibility  of  finding  a  suitable 
boarding  school,  and  purposely  selected  a  very 
rich  but  very  bourgeois  establishment,  pleasantly 
situated  in  a  sparsely-settled  faubourg,  in  a  huge 
old-fashioned  mansion,  surrounded  by  high  walls 
and  tall  trees,  —  a  sort  of  convent,  minus  the  restraint 
and  contempt  for  serious  studies. 

Indeed,  a  great  deal  of  hard  work  was  done  at 
Madame  Belin's  establishment,  with  no  opportu- 
nities to  go  out  except  on  great  festivals,  and  no 
communication  with  the  outside  world  except  a 


136  The  Nabob. 

visit  from  one's  relatives  on  Thursday,  in  a  little 
garden  of  flowering  shrubs,  or  in  the  vast  parlor 
with  the  carved  and  gilded  panels  above  the  doors, 
Felicia's  first  appearance  in  that  almost  monastic 
institution  caused  considerable  commotion ;  her 
costume,  selected  by  the  Austrian  ballet-dancer, 
her  curly  hair  falling  to  the  waist,  her  ungainly, 
boyish  bearing,  gave  rise  to  some  ill-natured  re- 
marks ;  but  she  was  a  Parisian  and  readily  adapted 
herself  to  all  situations,  to  all  localities.  In  a  few 
days  she  wore  more  gracefully  than  any  of  the 
others  the  little  black  apron,  to  which  the  most 
coquettish  attached  their  watches,  the  straight 
skirt  —  a  stern  and  cruel  requirement  at  that 
period,  when  the  prevailing  fashion  enlarged  the 
circumference  of  woman  with  an  infinite  number  of 
ruffles  and  flounces  —  and  the  prescribed  arrange- 
ment of  the  hair,  in  two  braids  fastened  together 
well  down  on  the  neck,  after  the  fashion  of  Roman 
peasants. 

Strangely  enough,  the  assiduous  work  of  the 
classes,  their  tranquil  regularity,  suited  Felicia's  na- 
ture, all  intelligence  and  animation,  in  which  a  taste 
for  study  was  enlivened  by  an  overflow  of  childish 
spirits  in  the  hours  of  recreation.  Every  one  loved 
her.  Among  those  children  of  great  manufac- 
turers, Parisian  notaries  and  gentleman-farmers,  a 
substantial  little  world  by  themselves,  somewhat 
inclined  to  stiff"ness  and  formality,  the  well-known 
name  of  old  Ruys,  and  the  respect  which  is  univer- 
sally manifested  in  Paris  for  a  high  reputation  as 
an  artist,  gave  to  Felicia  a  position  apart  from  the 


Felicia  Ruys.  137 

rest  and  greatly  envied ;  a  position  made  even 
more  brilliant  by  her  success  in  her  studies,  by 
a  genuine  talent  for  drawing,  and  by  her  beauty, 
that  element  of  superiority  which  produces  its 
effect  even  upon  very  young  girls. 

In  the  purer  atmosphere  of  the  boarding-school, 
she  felt  the  keenest  pleasure  in  making  herself 
womanly,  in  resuming  her  true  sex,  in  learning 
order,  regularity,  in  a  different  sense  from  that 
inculcated  by  the  amiable  dancer,  whose  kisses 
always  retained  a  taste  of  rouge,  and  whose  em- 
braces always  left  an  impression  of  unnaturally 
round  arms.  Pere  Ruys  was  enchanted,  every 
time  that  he  went  to  see  his  daughter,  to  find 
her  more  of  a  young  lady,  able  to  enter  and  walk 
about  and  leave  a  room  with  the  pretty  courtesy 
that  made  all  of  Madame  Belin's  boarders  long  for 
iho.  frotc-frou  of  a  long  train. 

At  first  he  came  often,  then,  as  he  lacked  time 
for  all  the  commissions  accepted  and  undertaken, 
the  advances  upon  which  helped  to  pay  for  the 
disorder  and  heedlessness  of  his  life,  he  was  seen 
less  frequently  in  the  parlor.  At  last  disease  took 
a  hand.  Brought  to  earth  by  hopeless  anaemia, 
for  weeks  he  did  not  leave  the  house,  nor  work. 
He  insisted  upon  seeing  his  daughter;  and  from 
the  peaceful,  health-giving  shadow  of  the  boarding- 
school  Felicia  returned  to  her  father's  studio,  still 
haunted  by  the  same  cronies,  the  parasites  that 
cling  to  every  celebrity,  among  whom  sickness 
had  introduced  a  new  figure  in  the  person  of  Dr. 
Jenkins. 


138  The  Nabob, 

That  handsome,  open  face,  the  air  of  frankness 
and  serenity  diffused  over  the  whole  person  of  that 
already  well  known  physician,  who  talked  of  his 
art  so  freely,  yet  performed  miraculous  cures,  and 
his  assiduous  attentions  to  her  father,  made  a  deep 
impression  on  the  girl.  Jenkins  soon  became  the 
friend,  the  confidant,  a  vigilant  and  gentle  guar- 
dian. Sometimes  in  the  studio,  when  some  one  — 
the  father  himself  most  frequently  —  made  a  too 
equivocal  remark  or  a  ribald  jest,  the  Irishman 
would  frown  and  make  a  little  noise  with  his  lips, 
or  else  would  divert  Felicia's  attention.  He  often 
took  her  to  pass  the  day  with  Madame  Jenkins, 
exerting  himself  to  prevent  her  from  becoming 
once  more  the  wild  creature  of  the  ante-boarding 
school  days,  or  indeed  the  something  worse  than 
that  which  she  threatened  to  become,  in  the  moral 
abandonment,  the  saddest  of  all  forms  of  abandon- 
ment, in  which  she  was  left. 

But  the  girl  had  a  more  powerful  protector  than 
the  irreproachable  but  worldly  example  of  the 
fair  Madame  Jenkins :  the  art  which  she  adored, 
the  enthusiasm  it  aroused  in  her  essentially  open 
nature,  the  sentiment  of  beauty,  of  truth,  which 
passed  from  her  thoughtful  brain,  teeming  with 
ideas,  into  her  fingers  with  a  little  quiver  of  the 
nerves,  a  longing  to  see  the  thing  done,  the  image 
realized.  All  day  she  worked  at  her  sculpture, 
gave  shape  to  her  reveries,  with  the  happy  tact 
of  instinct-guided  youth,  which  imparts  so  much 
charm  to  first  works ;  that  prevented  her  from 
regretting   too  keenly  the  austere  regime  of  the 


Felicia  Ruys.  139 

Belin  institution,  which  was  as  perfect  a  safeguard 
and  as  Hght  as  the  veil  of  a  novice  who  has  not 
taken  her  vows ;  and  it  also  shielded  her  from 
perilous  conversations  to  which  in  her  one  absorb- 
ing preoccupation  she  paid  no  heed. 

Ruys  was  proud  of  the  talent  springing  up  by 
his  side.  As  he  grew  weaker  from  day  to  day, 
having  already  reached  the  stage  at  which  the 
artist  regrets  his  vanishing  powers,  he  followed 
Felicia's  progress  as  a  consolation  for  the  close 
of  his  own  career.  The  modelling-tool,  which 
trembled  in  his  hand,  was  seized  at  his  side  with 
virile  firmness  and  self-assurance,  tempered  by  all 
of  the  innate  refinement  of  her  being  that  a  woman 
can  apply  to  the  realization  of  her  ideal  of  an  art. 
A  curious  sensation  is  that  twofold  paternity,  that 
survival  of  genius,  which  abandons  the  one  who 
is  going  away  to  pass  into  the  one  who  is  coming, 
like  the  lovely  domestic  birds  which,  on  the  eve 
of  a  death,  desert  the  threatened  roof  for  a  more 
cheerful  dwelling. 

In  the  last  days  of  her  father's  life,  Felicia  —  a 
great  artist,  and  still  a  child  —  did  half  of  her 
father's  work  for  him,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
touching  than  that  collaboration  of  the  father  and 
daughter,  in  the  same  studio,  sculptors  of  the 
same  group.  Things  did  not  always  run  smoothly. 
Although  she  was  her  father's  pupil,  Felicia's  indi- 
viduality was  already  inclined  to  rebel  against  any 
arbitrary  guidance.  She  had  the  audacity  of  begin- 
ners, the  presentiment  of  a  great  future  felt  only 
by  youthful    geniuses,  and,  in   opposition  to  the 


140  The  Nabob. 

romantic  traditions  of  Sebastien  Ruys,  a  tendency 
toward  modern  realism,  a  feeling  that  she  must  plant 
that  glorious  old  flag  upon  some  new  monument. 

Then  there  would  be  terrible  scenes,  disputes 
from  which  the  father  wouH  come  forth  vanquished, 
annihilated  by  his  daughter's  logic,  amazed  at  the 
rapid  progress  children  make  on  the  highroads, 
while  their  elders,  who  have  opened  the  gates  for 
them,  remain  stationary  at  the  point  of  departure. 
When  she  was  working  for  him  Felicia  yielded 
more  readily;  but  concerning  her  own  work  she 
was  intractable.  For  instance,  the.  Jouair  de  Boules, 
her  first  exhibited  work,  which  made  such  a 
tremendous  hit  at  the  Salon  of  1862,  was  the 
occasion  of  violent  disputes  between  the  two  artists, 
of  such  fierce  controversy  that  Jenkins  had  to 
intervene  and  to  superintend  the  removal  of  the 
figure,  which  Ruys  had  threatened  to  break. 

Aside  from  these  little  dramas,  which  had  no 
effect  upon  the  love  of  their  hearts,  those  two 
worshipped  each  other,  with  the  presentiment  and, 
as  the  days  passed,  the  cruel  certainty  of  an 
impending  separation ;  when  suddenly  there  came 
a  horrible  episode  in  Felicia's  life.  One  day 
Jenkins  took  her  home  to  dinner  with  him,  as  he 
often  did.  Madame  Jenkins  and  her  son  were 
away  for  two  days ;  but  the  doctor's  years,  his 
semi-paternal  intimacy,  justified  him  in  inviting  to 
his  house,  even  in  his  wife's  absence,  a  girl  whose 
fifteen  years,  the  fifteen  years  of  an  Eastern  Jewess 
resplendent  with  premature  beauty,  left  her  still 
almost  a  child. 


Felicia  Ruys.  141 

The  dinner  was  very  lively,  Jenkins  cordial  and 
agreeable  as  always.  Then  they  went  into  the 
doctor's  office ;  and  suddenly,  as  they  sat  on  the 
divan,  talking  in  the  most  intimate  and  friendly 
way  concerning  her  father,  his  health  and  their 
joint  work,  Felicia  had  a  feeling  as  of  the  cold 
blast  from  an  abyss  between  herself  and  that  man, 
followed  by  the  brutal  embrace  of  a  satyr's  claw. 
She  saw  a  Jenkins  totally  unknown  to  her,  wild- 
eyed,  stammering,  with  brutish  laugh  and  insulting 
hands.  In  the  surprise,  the  unexpectedness  of 
that  outbreak  of  the  animal  instinct,  any  other  than 
Felicia,  any  child  of  her  years,  but  genuinely  inno- 
cent, would  have  been  lost.  The  thing  that  saved 
her,  poor  child,  was  her  knowledge.  She  had 
heard  so  many  stories  at  her  father's  table  !  And 
then  her  art,  her  life  at  the  studio.  She  was  no  in- 
g^mie.  She  at  once  understood  what  that  embrace 
meant,  she  squirmed  and  struggled,  then,  finding 
that  she  was  not  strong  enough,  screamed.  He 
was  frightened,  released  her,  and  suddenly  she 
found  herself  on  her  feet,  free,  with  the  man  at  her 
knees,  weeping  and  imploring  forgiveness.  He 
had  yielded  to  an  attack  of  frenzy.  She  was  so 
lovely,  he  loved  her  so  dearly.  He  had  struggled 
for  months.  But  now  it  was  all  over  —  never 
again,  oh !  never  again.  He  would  not  even 
touch  the  hem  of  her  dress.  She  did  not  reply, 
but  tremblingly  rearranged  her  hair  and  her 
clothes  with  frenzied  fingers.  Go,  she  must  go  at 
once,  alone.  He  sent  a  servant  with  her,  and 
whispered,  as  she  entered  the  carriage :   "  Above 


142  The  Nabob. 

all  things,  not  a  word  of  this  at  home.  It  would 
kill  your  father."  He  knew  her  so  well,  he  was  so 
sure  of  closing  her  mouth  by  that  thought,  the  vil- 
lain, that  he  came  the  next  day  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  effusive  as  always  and  with  the  same  in- 
genuous face.  She  never  did  mention  the  incident 
to  her  father  or  to  anybody  else.  But  from  that 
day  a  change  took  place  in  her,  as  if  the  springs  of 
her  pride  were  relaxed.  She  became  capricious, 
had  fits  of  lassitude,  a  curl  of  disgust  in  her  smile, 
and  sometimes  she  yielded  to  sudden  outbursts  of 
wrath  against  her  father,  and  cast  scornful  glances 
upon  him,  rebuking  him  for  his  failure  to  watch 
over  her. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  Pere  Ruys 
would  ask ;  and  Jenkins,  with  the  authority  of  a 
physician,  would  attribute  it  to  her  age  and  a 
physical  trouble.  He  himself  avoided  speaking  to 
the  girl,  relying  upon  time  to  efface  the  sinister 
impression,  and  not  despairing  of  obtaining  what 
he  desired,  for  he  desired  more  eagerly  than  ever, 
being  in  the  grasp  of  the  insane  passion  of  a  man 
of  forty-seven,  the  incurable  passion  of  maturity ; 
and  that  was  the  hypocrite's  punishment.  His 
daughter's  strange  state  caused  the  sculptor  genu- 
ine distress ;  but  it  was  of  brief  duration.  Ruys 
suddenly  expired,  fell  to  pieces  all  at  once,  like  all 
those  whom  Jenkins  attended.  His  last  words  were : 
"  Jenkins,  I  place  my  daughter  in  your  care." 
The  words  were  so  ironical  in  all  their  mournful- 
ness  that  Jenkins,  who  was  present  at  the  last, 
could  not  avoid  turning  pale. 


Felicia  Ruys.  143 

Felicia  was  even  more  stupefied  than  sorrowful. 
To  the  feeling  of  amazement  at  death,  which  she 
had  never  seen  before,  and  which  appeared  in  a 
guise  so  dear  to  her,  was  added  the  feeling  of  a 
terrible  loneliness  surrounded  by  darkness  and 
perils. 

Several  friends  of  the  sculptor  assembled  in  a 
family  council  to  deliberate  concerning  the  future 
of  the  unfortunate,  penniless  orphan.  They  had 
found  fifty  francs  in  the  catch-all  in  which  S^bastien 
kept  his  money  on  a  little  commode  in  the  studio, 
well  known  to  his  needy  friends,  who  had  recourse 
to  it  without  scruple.  No  other  patrimony,  in 
cash  at  all  events ;  only  a  most  superb  collection 
of  artistic  objects  and  curios,  a  few  valuable  pic- 
tures and  some  scattered  outstanding  claims  hardly 
sufficient  to  cover  his  innumerable  debts.  They 
talked  of  a  sale  at  auction.  Felicia,  on  being  con- 
sulted, replied  that  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference 
to  her  whether  they  sold  all  or  none,  but  that  she 
begged  them,  for  God's  sake,  to  leave  her  in  peace. 

The  sale  did  not  take  place,  however,  thanks  to 
the  godmother,  the  excellent  Crenmitz,  who  sud- 
denly made  her  appearance,  as  tranquil  and  gentle 
as  always : 

"  Don't  listen  to  them,  my  child,  sell  nothing. 
Your  old  Constance  has  fifteen  thousand  francs  a 
year  which  were  intended  for  you.  You  shall  have 
the  benefit  of  them  now,  that 's  all.  We  will  live 
together  here.  I  will  not  be  in  the  way,  you  will 
see.  You  can  work  at  your  sculpture,  while  I 
keep  the  house.     Does  that  suit  you?  " 


144  The  Nabob. 

It  was  said  so  afifectionately,  in  the  childish 
accent  of  foreigners  expressing  themselves  in 
French,  that  the  girl  was  deeply  moved.  Her 
stony  heart  opened,  a  burning  flood  poured  from 
her  eyes  and  she  threw  herself,  buried  herself  in 
the  ex-dancer's  arms  :  "  Oh  !  godmother,  how  good 
you  are  !  Yes,  yes  ;  don't  leave  me  again  —  stay 
with  me  always.  Life  frightens  and  disgusts  me. 
I  see  so  much  hypocrisy  and  lying !  "  And  when 
the  old  woman  had  made  herself  a  silky,  embroid- 
ered nest  in  the  house,  which  resembled  a  traveller's 
camp  filled  with  the  treasures  of  all  lands,  those 
two  widely  different  natures  took  up  their  life 
together. 

It  was  no  small  sacrifice  that  Constance  had 
made  to  the  little  demon,  to  leave  her  retreat  at 
Fontainebleau  for  Paris,  which  she  held  in  horror. 
From  the  day  when  the  ballet-dancer,  once  famous 
for  her  extravagant  caprices,  who  squandered 
princely  fortunes  between  her  five  parted  fingers, 
had  descended  from  the  realm  of  apotheoses  with 
a  last  remnant  of  their  dazzling  glare  still  linger- 
ing in  her  eyes,  and  had  tried  to  resume  the  life  of 
ordinary  mortals,  to  administer  her  little  income 
and  her  modest  household,  she  had  been  subjected 
to  a  multitude  of  unblushing  attempts  at  extortion 
and  schemes  which  were  readily  successful  in  view 
of  the  ignorance  of  that  poor  butterfly,  who  was 
afraid  of  reality  and  constantly  coming  in  contact 
with  all  its  unknown  difficulties.  In  Felicia's  house 
the  responsibility  became  far  more  serious,  because 
of  the  extravagant  methods  long  ago  inaugurated 


Felicia  Ruys.  145 

by  the  father  and  continued  by  the  daughter,  both 
artists  having  the  utmost  contempt  for  economy. 
She  had  other  difficulties,  too,  to  overcome.  She 
could  not  endure  the  studio,  with  its  permanent 
odor  of  tobacco  smoke,  with  the  cloud,  impene- 
trable to  her,  in  which  artistic  discussions  and 
ideas,  expressed  in  their  baldest  form,  were  con- 
founded in  vague  eddies  of  glowing  vapor  which 
invariably  gave  her  the  sick  headache.  The 
blague  was  especially  terrifying  to  her.  Being  a 
foreigner,  a  former  divinity  of  the  ballet  green- 
room, fed  upon  superannuated  comphments,  gal- 
lantries a  la  Dorat  she  was  unable  to  understand  it, 
and  was  dismayed  at  the  wild  exaggerations,  the 
paradoxes  of  those  Parisians  whose  wits  were 
sharpened  by  the  liberty  of  the  studio. 

She  whose  wit  had  consisted  entirely  in  the 
agility  of  her  feet  was  awed  by  her  new  surround- 
ings and  relegated  to  the  position  of  a  simple 
companion ;  and  to  see  that  amiable  old  creature, 
silent  and  smiling,  sitting  in  the  bright  light  of  the 
rounded  window,  her  knitting  on  her  knees,  like 
one  of  Chardin's  bourgeoises,  or  walking  quickly 
up  the  long  Rue  de  Chaillot  where  the  nearest 
market  was  situated,  with  her  cook  at  her  side,  one 
would  never  have  dreamed  that  the  worthy  woman 
had  once  held  kings,  princes,  all  the  susceptible 
portion  of  the  nobility  and  the  world  of  finance, 
subject  to  the  whim  of  her  toes  and  her  gauze 
skirts. 

Paris  is  full  of  these  extinct  stars  which  have 
fallen  back  into  the  crowd. 

VOL.  I. — 10 


146  TJie  Nabob. 

Some  of  these  celebrities,  these  conquerors  of  a 
former  time,  retain  a  gnawing  rage  in  their  hearts ; 
others,  on  the  contrary,  dwell  blissfully  upon  the 
past,  ruminate  in  ineffable  content  all  their  glori- 
ous, bygone  joys,  seeking  only  repose,  silence 
and  obscurity,  wherein  they  may  remember  and 
meditate,  so  that,  when  they  die,  we  are  amazed  to 
learn  that  they  were  still  living. 

Constance  Crenmitz  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals.  But  what  a  strange  artists'  household 
was  that  of  those  two  women,  equally  childlike, 
contributing  to  the  common  stock  inexperience 
and  ambition,  the  tranquillity  of  an  accomplished 
destiny  and  the  feverish  activity  of  a  life  in  its 
prime,  all  the  differences  indeed  that  were  indicated 
by  the  contrast  between  that  blonde,  white  as  a 
withered  rose,  who  seemed  to  be  dressed,  beneath 
her  fair  complexion,  in  a  remnant  of  Bengal 
fire,  and  that  brunette,  with  the  regular  features, 
who  almost  invariably  enveloped  her  beauty  in 
dark  stuffs,  simply  made,  as  if  with  a  semblance  of 
masculinity. 

Unforeseen  emergencies,  caprice,  ignorance  of 
even  the  most  trivial  things,  led  to  extreme  confu- 
sion in  the  management  of  the  household,  from 
which  they  were  sometimes  unable  to  extricate 
themselves  except  by  enforced  privations,  by  dis- 
missing servants,  by  reforms  laughable  in  their 
exaggeration.  During  one  of  those  crises  Jenkins 
made  delicate,  carefully  veiled  offers  of  assistance 
which  were  repelled  with  scorn  by  Felicia. 

"  It  is  n't  right,"  said  Constance,  "  to  be  so  rude 


Felicia  Ruys,  147 

to  that  poor  doctor.  After  all,  there  was  nothing 
insulting  in  what  he  said.  An  old  friend  of  your 
father's." 

"  That  man,  anybody's  friend  !  Oh !  what  a 
superb  Tartuffe ! 

And  Felicia,  hardly  able  to  contain  herself, 
twisted  her  wrath  into  irony,  mimicked  Jenkins,  the 
affected  gestures,  the  hand  on  the  heart;  then, 
puffing  out  her  cheeks,  said  in  a  hoarse,  whistling 
voice,  full  of  false  effusiveness  : 

"  We  must  be  kind,  we  must  be  humane.  To  do 
good  without  hope  of  reward  !  —  that  is  the  secret." 

Constance  laughed,  in  spite  of  herself,  till  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  the  resemblance  was  so 
perfect. 

"Never  mind,  you  were  too  harsh — you  will 
end  by  driving  him  away." 

"  Oh  !  indeed  !  "  said  a  shake  of  the  girl's  head. 

In  truth,  he  continued  to  come  to  the  house, 
always  affable  and  sweet,  dissembling  his  passion, 
which  was  visible  only  when  he  became  jealous  of 
new-comers,  overwhelming  with  attentions  the  ex- 
ballet-dancer,  to  whom  his  pleasant  manners  were 
gratifying  in  spite  of  everything,  and  who  recog- 
nized in  him  a  man  of  her  own  time,  of  the  time 
when  men  paid  their  respects  to  women  by  kissing 
their  hand,  with  a  complimentary  remark  as  to 
their  appearance. 

One  morning,  Jenkins,  having  looked  in  during 
his  round  of  visits,  found  Constance  alone  and 
unoccupied  in  the  reception  room. 


148  The  Nabob. 

"  I  am  mounting  guard,  Doctor,  as  you  see," 
she  said  calmly. 

"  How  does  that  happen?  " 

"  Why,  Felicia  's  at  work.  She  does  n't  want  to 
be  disturbed  and  the  servants  are  so  stupid.  I  am 
carrying  out  her  orders  myself." 

Then,  as  she  saw  the  Irishman  walk  toward  the 
studio,  she  added : 

"  No,  no,  don't  go  there.  She  gave  me  strict 
orders  not  to  let  any  one  go  in." 

"  Very  good,  but  I —  " 

"  I  beg  you  not  —  you  will  get  me  a  scolding." 

Jenkins  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  a  peal  of 
laughter  from  Felicia  reached  their  ears  through 
the  portiere  and  made  him  raise  his  head. 

"  So  she  is  n't  alone  ?  " 

"  No.  The  Nabob  is  with  her.  They  are  having 
a  sitting  —  for  the  bust." 

"  But  why  this  mystery?     It 's  very  strange." 

He  strode  back  and  forth,  raging  inwardly,  but 
holding  himself  back. 

At  last  he  broke  out. 

It  was  improper  beyond  expression  to  allow  a 
girl  to  be  closeted  in  that  way  with  a  man. 

He  was  astonished  that  so  serious-minded,  so 
devout  a  person  as  Constance —  What  did  it  look 
like? 

The  old  lady  gazed  at  him  in  stupefaction.  As 
if  Felicia  were  like  other  girls !  And  then,  what 
danger  could  there  be  with  the  Nabob,  such  a 
serious  man  and  so  ugly?  Moreover,  Jenkins 
ought   to   know  well   enough   that   Felicia   never 


Feiuia  Ruys.  .  149 

consulted  anybody,  that  she  did  only  what  she 
chose. 

"No,  no,  it's  impossible;  I  cannot  allow  this," 
exclaimed  the  Irishman. 

And,  paying  no  further  heed  to  the  dancer,  who 
threw  up  her  arms  to  call  heaven  to  witness  what 
was  taking  place,  he  walked  toward  the  studio ; 
but,  instead  of  entering  at  once,  he  opened  the 
door  gently  and  raised  a  corner  of  the  hanging,  so 
that  a  part  of  the  room,  just  that  part  where  the 
Nabob  was  posing,  was  visible  to  him,  although  at 
a  considerable  distance. 

Jansoulet  was  seated,  without  a  cravat,  with  his 
waistcoat  thrown  open,  talking  excitedly,  in  an 
undertone.  Felicia  answered  in  laughing  whis- 
pers. The  sitting  was  very  animated.  Then  there 
was  a  pause,  a  rustling  of  skirts,  and  the  artist,  go- 
ing up  to  her  model,  turned  his  linen  collar  back 
all  the  way  around,  with  a  familiar  gesture,  letting 
her  hand  run  lightly  over  the  tanned  skin. 

That  Ethiopian  face,  in  which  the  muscles  quiv- 
ered with  the  intoxication  of  supreme  content,  with 
its  great  eyelids  lowered  like  those  of  a  sleeping 
beast  being  tickled  with  a  straw,  the  bold  outline 
of  the  girl  as  she  leaned  over  that  outlandish  face 
to  verify  its  proportions,  and  then  a  violent,  irre- 
sistible gesture,  seizing  the  slender  hand  as  it  passed 
and  pressing  it  to  two  thick,  trembling  lips,  — 
Jenkins  saw  all  this  in  a  red  glare. 

The  noise  that  he  made  in  entering  caused  the 
two  to  resume  their  respective  positions,  and  in 
the  bright  light  which  dazzled  his  prying,  catlike 


150  The  Nabob. 

eyes,  he  saw  the  girl  standing  before  him,  indig- 
nant, dumfounded :  "What  is  this?  Who  has 
dared?"  and  the  Nabob  on  his  platform,  with  his 
collar  turned  back,  petrified,  monumental. 

Jenkins,  somewhat  abashed,  dismayed  by  his 
own  audacity,  stammered  some  words  of  apology. 
He  had  something  very  urgent  to  say  to  M.  Jan- 
soulet,  very  important  information  which  could 
not  be  delayed.  He  knew  from  a  reliable  source 
that  there  would  be  a  distribution  of  crosses  on 
March  i6th.  The  Nabob's  face,  momentarily  con- 
tracted, at  once  relaxed. 

"Ah!   really?" 

He  abandoned  his  pose.  The  matter  was  well 
worth  considering,  deuce  take  it !  M.  de  la  Perriere, 
one  of  the  Empress's  secretaries,  had  been  directed 
by  her  to  visit  the  shelter  of  Bethlehem.  Jenkins 
had  come  to  take  the  Nabob  to  the  secretary's 
office  at  the  Tuileries  and  make  inquiries.  That 
visit  to  Bethlehem  meant  a  cross  for  him. 

"  Come,  let  us  be  off;  I  am  with  you,  my  dear 
doctor." 

He  bore  Jenkins  no  ill-will  for  disturbing  him, 
and  he  feverishly  tied  his  cravat,  forgetting  under 
the  stress  of  his  new  emotion  the  agitation  of  a 
moment  before,  for  with  him  ambition  took  preced- 
ence of  everything. 

While  the  two  men  talked  together  in  under- 
tones, Felicia,  standing  before  them,  with  quivering 
nostrils  and  lip  curling  in  scorn,  watched  them  as 
if  to  say :  "  W^ell !   I  am  waiting." 

Jansoulet  apologized  for  being  obliged  to  inter- 


Felicia  Ruys,  151 

rupt  the  sitting;  but  a  visit  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance —     She  smiled  pityingly. 

"  Go,  go.  At  the  point  where  we  are  now,  I  can 
work  without  you." 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  the  bust  is  almost 
finished.  It's  a  fine  piece  of  work,"  he  added, 
with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur. 

And,  relying  on  the  compliment  to  cover  his 
retreat,  he  was  slinking  away,  crestfallen;  but 
Felicia  fiercely  called  him  back: 

"  Stay,  you.     I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

He  saw  by  her  expression  that  he  must  comply, 
under  pain  of  an  outbreak. 

"  With  your  permission,  my  friend  ?  Made- 
moiselle has  a  word  to  say  to  me.  My  coup6  is 
at  the  door.  Get  in,  I  will  be  with  you  in  a 
moment." 

When  the  studio  door  closed  upon  those  heavy 
departing  footsteps,  they  looked  each  other  in  the 
face. 

"  You  must  be  either  drunk  or  mad  to  venture 
to  do  such  a  thing.  What!  you  presume  to  enter 
my  studio  when  I  do  not  choose  to  receive?  Why 
this  violence?     By  what  right?  " 

"  By  the  right  that  desperate,  unconquerable 
passion  gives." 

"  Be  quiet,  Jenkins ;  those  are  words  that  I  do 
not  wish  to  hear.  I  let  you  come  here  through 
pity,  through  habit,  because  my  father  was  fond  of 
you.  But  never  speak  to  me  again  of  your  — 
love  "  —  she  said  the  word  very  low,  as  if  it  were  a 
disgrace  —  "or   you  will  see  me  no    more,  even 


152  The  Nabob. 

though  I  should  be  driven  to  die  in  order  to  escape 
you  for  good  and  all." 

A  child  taken  in  fault  does  not  bend  his  head 
more  humbly  than  Jenkins  as  he  replied : 

*'  True  —  I  was  wrong.  A  moment  of  madness, 
of  bhndness.  But  why  do  you  take  pleasure  in 
tearing  my  heart  as  you  do?" 

"  As  if  I  were  thinking  of  you  !  " 

"  Whether  you  are  thinking  of  me  or  not,  I  am 
here,  I  see  what  is  going  on,  and  your  coquetry 
pains  me  terribly." 

A  slight  flush  rose  in  her  cheeks  at  that  re- 
proach. 

"  I,  a  coquette  !     With  whom?  " 

"  With  him,"  said  the  Irishman,  pointing  to  the 
superb  apelike  bust. 

She  tried  to  laugh. 

"The  Nabob.     What  nonsense  !  " 

"  Do  not  lie.  Do  you  think  I  am  blind,  that  I 
don't  understand  all  your  manoeuvres?  You  stay 
alone  with  him  a  long  while.  I  was  at  the  door 
just  now.  I  saw  you."  He  lowered  his  voice  as 
if  his  breath  had  failed  him.  "  What  are  you  after, 
in  heaven's  name,  you  strange,  heartless  child?  I 
have  seen  you  repel  the  handsomest,  the  noblest, 
the  greatest.  That  little  de  Gery  devours  you 
with  his  eyes,  but  you  pay  no  heed  to  him.  Even 
the  Due  de  Mora  has  not  succeeded  in  reaching 
your  heart.  And  this  man,  a  shocking,  vulgar 
creature,  who  is  n't  thinking  of  you,  who  has 
something  very  different  from  love  in  his  head 
—  you  saw   how  he  went  away  just  now  !     What 


Felicia  Ruys.  153 

are  you  aiming  at?  What  do  you  expect  from 
him?" 

"  I  intend  —  I  intend  that  he  shall  marry  me. 
There." 

Coolly,  in  a  softer  tone,  as  if  the  confession  had 
drawn  her  nearer  to  the  man  she  despised  so 
bitterly,  she  set  forth  her  reasons.  She  had 
luxurious,  extravagant  tastes,  unmethodical  habits 
which  nothing  could  overcome  and  which  would 
infallibly  lead  her  to  poverty  and  destitution,  and 
good  Crenmitz  too,  who  allowed  herself  to  be 
ruined  without  a  word.  In  three  years,  four  years 
at  most,  it  would  be  all  over.  And  then  would 
come  debts  and  desperate  expedients,  the  ragged 
gowns  and  old  shoes  of  poor  artists'  households. 
Or  else  the  lover,  the  keeper,  that  is  to  say  slavery 
and  degradation. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Jenkins.  "  What  of  me,  am  I 
not  here?  " 

"  Anything  rather  than  you,"  she  said,  drawing 
herself  up.  "  No,  what  I  must  have,  what  I  will 
have,  is  a  husband  to  protect  me  from  others  and 
from  myself,  to  keep  me  from  a  mass  of  black 
things  of  which  I  am  afraid  when  life  becomes  a 
bore  to  me,  from  abysses  into  which  I  feel  that  I 
may  plunge,  —  some  one  who  will  love  me  while  I 
work,  and  will  relieve  my  poor  old  exhausted  fairy 
from  doing  sentry  duty.  That  man  suits  me  and 
I  have  had  my  eye  on  him  ever  since  I  first  saw 
him.  He  is  ugly  to  look  at,  but  he  seems  kind ; 
and  then  he  is  absurdly  rich,  and  wealth,  in  that 
degree,  must  be  amusing.     Oh !  I  know  all  about 


154  ^/^^  Nabob. 

it.  There  probably  is  some  black  spot  in  his  life 
which  has  brought  him  good  luck.  All  that  gold 
can't  have  been  honestly  come  by.  But  tell  me 
truly,  Jenkins,  with  your  hand  on  that  heart  which 
you  invoke  so  often,  do  you  think  that  I  am  a  very 
tempting  wife  for  an  honest  man?  Consider:  of 
all  these  young  men  who  ask  as  a  favor  to  be 
allowed  to  come  here,  what  one  has  ever  thought 
of  asking  for  my  hand?  Never  a  single  one.  De 
Gery  no  more  than  the  rest.  I  charm,  but  I  ter- 
rify. That  is  easily  understood.  What  can  any- 
one expect  of  a  girl  brought  up  as  I  was,  with  no 
mother  or  family,  tossed  in  a  heap  with  my  father's 
models  and  mistresses?  Such  mistresses,  great 
God  !  And  Jenkins  for  my  only  protector.  Oh  ! 
when  I  think  of  it !     When  I  think  of  it !  " 

And,  with  the  memory  of  that  already  distant 
episode,  thoughts  came  to  her  mind  which  inflamed 
her  wrath.  "  Oh  !  yes,  I  am  a  child  of  chance, 
and  this  adventurer  is  just  the  husband  for  me."  ^ 

"  At  least  you  will  wait  until  he  's  a  widower," 
retorted  Jenkins  tranquilly.  "  And  in  that  case 
you  may  have  to  wait  a  long  while,  for  his  Levan- 
tine looks  to  be  in  excellent  health." 

Felicia  Ruys  became  livid. 

"  He  is  married?  " 

"  Married,  why,  to  be  sure,  and  father  of  a  lot  of 
children.  The  whole  outfit  landed  here  two  days 
ago." 

She  stood  for  a  moment,  speechless,  her  cheeks 
quivering. 

1  Je  suis  une  fille  d'aveiiture,  et  cet  aventurier  est  bien  le  mari 
qu'il  me  faut. 


Felicia  Ruys.  155 

In  front  of  her  the  Nabob's  broad  visage,  in 
shining  clay,  with  its  flat  nose,  its  sensual  good- 
humored  mouth,  seemed  to  cry  aloud  in  its  fidelity 
to  life.  She  gazed  at  it  a  moment,  then  stepped 
toward  it,  and  with  a  gesture  of  disgust  overturned 
the  high,  wooden  stand  and  the  gleaming,  greasy 
block  itself,  which  fell  to  the  floor  a  shapeless  mass 
of  mud. 


156  The  Nabob. 


VII. 

JANSOULET   AT   HOME. 

Married  he  had  been  for  twelve  years,  but  had 
never  mentioned  the  fact  to  any  one  of  his  Parisian 
acquaintances,  by  virtue  of  an  acquired  Oriental 
habit,  the  habit  that  Oriental  peoples  have  of  main- 
taining silence  concerning  their  female  relations. 
Suddenly  it  was  learned  that  Madame  was  coming, 
that  apartments  must  be  made  ready  for  her,  her 
children  and  her  women.  The  Nabob  hired  the 
whole  second  floor  of  the  house  on  Place  Ven- 
dome,  the  previous  tenant  being  sacrificed  to 
Nabob  prices.  The  stables  were  increased  in  size, 
the  staff  of  servants  was  doubled ;  and  then,  one 
day,  coachmen  and  carriages  went  to  the  Lyon 
station  to  fetch  Madame,  who  arrived  with  a  reti- 
nue of  negresses,  little  negroes  and  gazelles,  com- 
pletely filling  a  long  train  that  had  been  heated 
expressly  for  her  all  the  way  from  Marseille. 

She  alighted  in  a  terrible  state  of  prostration, 
exhausted  and  bewildered  by  her  long  railroad 
journey,  the  first  in  her  life,  for  she  had  been  taken 
to  Tunis  as  a  child  and  had  never  left  it.  Two 
negroes  carried  her  from  the  carriage  to  her  apart- 


Jansoulet  at  Home,  157 

ments  in  an  armchair,  which  was  always  kept  in 
the  vestibule  thereafter,  ready  for  that  difficult 
transportation.  Madame  Jansoulet  could  not  walk 
upstairs,  for  it  made  her  dizzy;  she  would  not 
have  an  elevator  because  her  weight  made  it 
squeak ;  besides,  she  never  walked.  An  enor- 
mous creature,  so  bloated  that  it  was  impossible  to 
assign  her  an  age,  but  somewhere  between  twenty- 
five  and  forty,  with  rather  a  pretty  face,  but  features 
all  deformed  by  fat,  lifeless  eyes  beneath  drooping 
lids  grooved  like  shells,  trussed  up  in  exported 
gowns,  loaded  with  diamonds  and  jewels  like  a 
Hindoo  idol,  she  was  a  most  perfect  specimen  of 
the  transplanted  Europeans  who  are  called  Levan- 
tines. A  strange  race  of  obese  Creoles,  connected 
with  our  society  by  naught  save  language  and 
dress,  but  enveloped  by  the  Orient  in  its  stupefy- 
ing atmosphere,  the  subtle  poisons  of  its  opium- 
laden  air,  in  which  everything  becomes  limp  and 
nerveless,  from  the  tissues  of  the  skin  to  the  girdle 
around  the  waist,  ay,  even  to  the  mind  itself  and 
the  thought. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  an  enormously  wealthy 
Belgian,  a  dealer  in  coral  at  Tunis,  in  whose  estab- 
lishment Jansoulet  had  been  employed  for  several 
months  on  his  first  arrival  in  the  country.  Made- 
moiselle Afchin,  at  that  time  a  fascinating  doll, 
with  dazzling  complexion  and  hair,  and  perfect 
health,  came  often  to  the  counting-roorri  for  her 
father,  in  the  great  chariot  drawn  by  mules  which 
conveyed  them  to  their  beautiful  villa  of  La  Marse 
in   the    outskirts    of   Tunis.      The    child,    always 


158  The  Nabob. 

decollete,  with  gleaming  white  shoulders  seen  for 
a  moment  in  a  luxurious  frame,  dazzled  the  adven- 
turer ;  and  years  after,  when  he  had  become  rich, 
the  favorite  of  the  bey,  and  thought  of  settling 
down,  his  mind  reverted  to  her.  The  child  had 
changed  into  a  stout,  heavy,  sallow  girl.  Her  in- 
tellect, never  of  a  high  order,  had  become  still 
more  obtuse  in  the  torpor  of  such  a  life  as  dormice 
lead,  in  the  neglect  of  a  father  whose  whole  time 
and  thought  were  given  to  business,  and  in  the  use 
of  tobacco  saturated  with  opium  and  of  sweet- 
meats,—  the  torpor  of  her  Flemish  blood  con- 
joined with  Oriental  indolence ;  and  with  all  the 
rest,  ill-bred,  gluttonous,  sensual,  arrogant,  a  Le- 
vantine trinket  brought  to  perfection. 

But  Jansoulet  saw  nothing  of  all  that. 

In  his  eyes  she  was  then,  she  was  always,  down 
to  the  time  of  her  arrival  in  Paris,  a  superior  being, 
a  person  of  the  highest  refinement,  a  Demoiselle 
Afchin ;  he  spoke  to  her  with  respect,  maintained 
a  slightly  humble  and  timid  attitude  toward  her, 
gave  her  money  without  counting  it,  indulged  her 
most  extravagant  caprices,  her  wildest  whims,  all 
the  strange  conceits  of  a  Levantine's  brain  dis- 
tracted by  ennui  and  idleness.  A  single  word  jus- 
tified everything;  she  was  a  Demoiselle  Afchin. 
And  yet  they  had  nothing  in  common;  he  was 
always  at  the  Kasbah  or  the  Bardo,  in  attendance 
on  the  bey,  paying  his  court  to  him,  or  else  in  his 
counting-room;  she  passed  her  day  in  bed,  on  her 
head  a  diadem  of  pearls  worth  three  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  which  she  never  laid  aside,  brutalizing 


Jansoulet  at  Home.  159 

herself  by  smoking,  living  as  in  a  harem,  admiring 
herself  in  the  mirror,  arraying  herself  in  fine 
clothes,  in  company  with  several  other  Levantines, 
whose  greatest  joy  consisted  in  measuring  with 
their  necklaces  the  girth  of  arms  and  legs  which 
rivalled  one  another  in  corpulency,  bringing  forth 
children  with  whom  she  never  concerned  herself, 
whom  she  never  saw,  who  had  never  even  caused 
her  suffering,  for  she  was  delivered  under  the  influ- 
ence of  chloroform.  A  "  bale  "  of  white  flesh  per- 
fumed with  musk.  And  Jansoulet  would  say  with 
pride:   "  I  married  a  Demoiselle  Afchin  !  " 

Under  Parisian  skies  and  in  the  cold  light  of  the 
capital,  his  disillusionment  began.  Having  deter- 
mined to  set  up  a  regular  establishment,  to  receive, 
to  give  entertainments,  the  Nabob  had  sent  for  his 
wife,  in  order  to  place  her  at  the  head  of  his  house. 
But  when  he  saw  that  mass  of  stiff,  crackling  dry- 
goods,  of  Palais-Royal  finery,  alight  at  his  door, 
and  all  the  extraordinary  outfit  that  followed  her, 
he  had  a  vague  impression  of  a  Queen  Pomare  in 
exile.  The  difficulty  was  that  he  had  seen  some 
genuine  women  of  fashion  and  he  made  compari- 
sons. He  had  planned  a  grand  ball  to  celebrate 
her  arrival,  but  he  prudently  abstained.  Indeed 
Madame  Jansoulet  refused  to  receive  any  one. 
Her  natural  indolence  was  augmented  by  the 
homesickness  which  the  cold  yellow  fog  and  the 
pouring  rain  had  brought  upon  her  as  soon  as  she 
landed.  She  passed  several  days  in  bed,  crying 
aloud  like  a  child,  declaring  that  they  had  brought 
her  to  Paris  to  kill  her,  and  even  rejecting  the 


i6o  The  Nabob. 

slightest  attentions  from  her  women.  She  lay 
there  roaring  among  her  lace  pillows,  her  hair  in  a 
tangled  mass  around  her  diadem,  the  windows 
closed  and  curtains  tightly  drawn,  lamps  lighted 
day  and  night,  crying  out  that  she  wanted  to  go 
away — ay,  to  go  away — ay;  and  it  was  a  pitiful 
thing  to  see,  in  that  tomb-like  darkness,  the  half- 
filled  trunks  scattered  over  the  carpet,  the  fright- 
ened gazelles,  the  negresses  crouching  around 
their  hysterical  mistress,  groaning  in  unison,  with 
haggard  eyes,  like  the  dogs  of  travellers  in  polar 
countries  which  go  mad  when  they  cannot  see  the 
sun. 

The  Irish  doctor,  upon  being  admitted  to  that 
distressing  scene,  had  no  success  with  his  fatherly 
ways,  his  fine  superficial  phrases.  Not  at  any  price 
would  the  Levantine  take  the  pearls  with  arsenical 
base,  to  give  tone  to  her  system.  The  Nabob  was 
horrified.  What  was  he  to  do?  Send  her  back  to 
Tunis  with  the  children?  That  was  hardly  possible. 
He  was  definitively  in  disgrace  there.  The  Hemer- 
lingues  had  triumphed.  A  last  insult  had  filled 
the  measure  to  overflowing:  on  Jansoulet's  de- 
parture the  bey  had  commissioned  him  to  have 
several  millions  of  gold  coined  after  a  new  pattern 
at  the  Paris  Mint;  then  the  commission  had  been 
abruptly  withdrawn  and  given  to  Hemerlingue. 
Jansoulet,  being  publicly  insulted,  retorted  with  a 
public  manifesto,  offering  all  his  property  for  sale, 
his  palace  on  the  Bardo  presented  to  him  by  the 
former  bey,  his  villas  at  La  Marse,  all  of  white 
marble,    surrounded    by  magnificent   gardens,  his 


Janso7ilet  at  Home.  i6i 

counting  rooms,  the  most  commodious  and  most 
sumptuously  furnished  in  the  city,  and  instruct- 
ing the  inteUigent  Bompain  to  bring  his  wife 
and  children  to  Paris  in  order  to  put  the  seal 
of  finality  to  his  departure.  After  such  a  dis- 
play, it  would  be  hard  to  return;  that  is  what  he 
tried  to  make  Mademoiselle  Afchin  understand, 
but  she  replied  only  by  prolonged  groans.  He 
strove  to  comfort  her,  to  amuse  her,  but  what 
form  of  distraction  could  be  made  to  appeal  to 
that  abnormally  apathetic  nature?  And  then, 
could  he  change  the  skies  of  Paris,  give  back  to 
the  wretched  Levantine  her  marble-tiled  patio, 
where  she  used  to  pass  long  hours  in  a  cool, 
delicious  state  of  drowsiness,  listening  to  the 
plashing  of  the  water  in  the  great  alabaster  foun- 
tain with  three  basins  one  above  the  other,  and 
her  gilded  boat,  covered  with  a  purple  awning 
and  rowed  by  eight  supple,  muscular  Tripolitan 
oarsmen  over  the  lovely  lake  of  El-Baheira,  when 
the  sun  was  setting?  Sumptuous  as  were  the 
apartments  on  Place  Vendome,  they  could  not 
supply  the  place  of  those  lost  treasures.  And 
she  plunged  deeper  than  ever  in  her  despair. 
One  habitue  of  the  house  succeeded,  however,  in 
drawing  her  out  of  it,  Cabassu,  who  styled  him- 
self on  his  cards  "  professor  of  massage;  "  a  stout 
dark  thick-set  man,  redolent  of  garlic  and  hair-oil, 
square-shouldered,  covered  with  hair  to  his  eyes, 
who  knew  stories  of  Parisian  seraglios,  trivial 
anecdotes  within  the  limited  range  of  Madame's 
intellect.     He    came    once    to    rub    her,    and    she 

VOL.  I.  —  II 


1 62  The  Nabob. 

wished  to  see  him  again,  detained  him.  He  was 
obHged  to  abandon  all  his  other  customers  and 
to  become  the  masseur  of  that  able-bodied  crea- 
ture, at  a  salary  equal  to  that  of  a  senator,  her 
page,  her  reader,  her  body-guard.  Jansoulet, 
overjoyed  to  see  that  his  wife  was  contented,  was 
not  conscious  of  the  disgusting  absurdity  of  the 
intimacy. 

Cabassu  was  seen  in  the  Bois,  in  the  enormous 
and  sumptuous  caleche  beside  the  favorite  gazelle, 
at  the  back  of  the  theatre  boxes  which  the  Levan- 
tine hired,  for  she  went  abroad  now,  revivified  by 
her  masseur's  treatment  and  determined  to  be 
amused.  She  liked  the  theatre,  especially  farces 
or  melodramas.  The  apathy  of  her  unwieldy 
body  was  minimized  in  the  false  glare  of  the 
footlights.  But  she  enjoyed  Cardailhac's  theatre 
most  of  all.  There  the  Nabob  was  at  home. 
From  the  first  manager  down  to  the  last  box- 
opener,  the  whole  staff  belonged  to  him.  He  had 
a  key  to  the  door  leading  from  the  corridor  to  the 
stage ;  and  the  salon  attached  to  his  box,  deco- 
rated in  Oriental  fashion,  with  the  ceiling  hollowed 
out  like  a  bee-hive,  divans  upholstered  in  camel's 
hair,  the  gas-jet  enclosed  in  a  little  Moorish  lan- 
tern, was  admirably  adapted  for  a  nap  during 
the  tedious  entr'actes :  a  delicate  compliment  from 
the  manager  to  his  partner's  wife.  Nor  had  that 
monkey  of  a  Cardailhac  stopped  at  that:  detecting 
Mademoiselle  Afchin's  liking  for  the  stage,  he  had 
succeeded  in  persuading  her  that  she  possessed  an 
intuitive  knowledge  of  all  things  pertaining  to  it, 


Jaiisoulet  at  Home.  163 

and  had  ended  by  asking  her  to  cast  a  glance  in 
her  leisure  moments,  the  glance  of  an  expert, 
upon  such  pieces  as  he  sent  to  her.  An  excel- 
lent way  of  binding  the  partnership  more  firmly. 

Poor  manuscripts  in  blue  or  yellow  covers,  which 
hope  has  tied  with  slender  ribbons,  ye  who  take 
flight  swelling  with  ambition  and  with  dreams, 
who  knows  what  hands  will  open  you,  turn  your 
leaves,  what  prying  fingers  will  deflower  your 
unknown  charm,  that  shining  dust  stored  up  by 
every  new  idea?  Who  passes  judgment  on  you, 
and  who  condemns  you  ?  Sometimes,  before  going 
out  to  dinner,  Jansoulet,  on  going  up  to  his  wife's 
room,  would  find  her  smoking  in  her  easy-chair, 
with  her  head  thrown  back  and  piles  of  manuscript 
by  her  side,  and  Cabassu,  armed  with  a  blue  pencil, 
reading  in  his  hoarse  voice  and  with  his  Bourg- 
Saint-Andeol  intonation  some  dramatic  lucubra- 
tion which  he  cut  and  slashed  remorselessly  at 
the  slightest  word  of  criticism  from  the  lady. 
"  Don't  disturb  yourselves,"  the  good  Nabob's 
wave  of  the  hand  would  say,  as  he  entered  the 
room  on  tiptoe.  He  would  listen  and  nod  his 
head  admiringly  as  he  looked  at  his  wife.  "  She 's 
an  astonishing  creature,"  he  would  say  to  himself, 
for  he  knew  nothing  of  literature,  and  in  that 
direction  at  all  events  he  recognized  Mademoi- 
selle Afchin's  superiority. 

"  She  had  the  theatrical  instinct,"  as  Cardailhac 
said ;  but  as  an  offset,  the  maternal  instinct  was 
entirely  lacking.  She  never  gave  a  thought  to 
her  children,   abandoning   them  to   the   hands  of 


164  The  Nabob. 

strangers,  and,  when  they  were  brought  to  her 
once  a  month,  contenting  herself  with  giving  them 
the  flabby,  Hfeless  flesh  of  her  cheeks  to  kiss, 
between  two  pufifs  of  a  cigarette,  and  never  making 
inquiries  concerning  the  details  of  care  and  health 
which  perpetuate  the  physical  bond  of  motherhood, 
and  make  the  true  mother's  heart  bleed  in  sym- 
pathy with  her  child's  slightest  suffering. 

They  were  three  stout,  heavy,  apathetic  boys,  of 
eleven,  nine,  and  seven  years,  with  the  Levantine's 
sallow  complexion  and  premature  bloated  appear- 
ance, and  their  father's  velvety,  kindly  eyes.  They 
were  as  ignorant  as  young  noblemen  of  the  Middle 
Ages;  in  Tunis  M.  Bompain  had  charge  of  their 
studies,  but  in  Paris  the  Nabob,  intent  upon  giving 
them  the  benefit  of  a  Parisian  education,  had  placed 
them  in  the  most  stylish  and  most  expensive  board- 
ing school,  the  College  Bourdaloue,  conducted  by 
excellent  Fathers,  who  aimed  less  at  teaching  their 
pupils  than  at  moulding  them  into  well-bred,  reflect- 
ing men  of  the  world,  and  who  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing little  monstrosities,  affected  and  ridiculous, 
scornful  of  play,  absolutely  ignorant,  with  no  trace 
of  spontaneity  or  childishness,  and  despairingly 
pert  and  forward.  The  little  Jansoulets  did  not 
enjoy  themselves  overmuch  in  that  hothouse  for 
early  fruits,  notwithstanding  the  special  privileges 
accorded  to  their  immense  wealth ;  they  were  really 
too  neglected.  Even  the  Creoles  in  the  institution 
had  correspondents  and  visitors ;  but  they  were 
never  called  to  the  parlor,  nor  was  any  relative  of 
theirs  known  to  the  school  authorities ;   from  time 


Jaiisoulet  at  Home.  165 

to  time  they  received  baskets  of  sweetmeats  or 
windfalls  of  cake,  and  that  was  all.  The  Nabob, 
as  he  drove  through  Paris,  would  strip  a  confec- 
tioner's shop-window  for  their  benefit  and  send 
the  contents  to  the  college  with  that  affectionate 
impulsiveness  blended  with  negro-like  ostentation 
which  characterized  all  his  acts.  It  was  the  same 
with  their  toys,  always  too  fine,  too  elaborate,  of 
no  earthly  use,  the  toys  which  are  made  only  for 
show  and  which  the  Parisian  never  buys.  But  the 
thing  to  which  above  all  others  the  little  Jansoulets 
owed  the  respectful  consideration  of  pupils  and 
masters  was  their  well-filled  purse,  always  ready  for 
collections,  for  professorial  entertainments,  and  for 
the  charitable  visits,  the  famous  visits  inaugurated 
by  the  College  Bourdaloue,  one  of  the  tempting 
items  on  the  programme  of  the  institution,  the 
admiration  of  impressionable  minds. 

Twice  a  month,  turn  and  turn  about,  the  pupils 
belonging  to  the  little  Society  of  Saint-Vincent-de- 
Paul,  established  at  the  college  on  the  model  of  the 
great  society  of  that  name,  went  in  small  detach- 
ments, unattended,  like  grown  men,  to  carry  succor 
and  consolation  to  the  farthest  corners  of  the 
thickly-peopled  faubourgs.  In  that  way  it  was 
sought  to  teach  them  charity  by  experience,  the 
art  of  finding  out  the  wretchedness,  the  necessities 
of  the  people  and  of  dressing  their  sores,  always 
more  or  less  repulsive,  with  a  balsam  of  kind  words 
and  ecclesiastical  maxims.  To  console,  to  convert 
the  masses  by  the  aid  of  childhood,  to  disarm 
religious  incredulity  by  the  youth  and  innocence 


1 66  TJie  Nabob. 

of  the  apostles;  such  was  the  purpose  of  that  little 
society,  a  purpose  that  failed  absolutely  of  realiza- 
tion, by  the  way.  The  children,  well-dressed,  well- 
fed,  in  excellent  health,  went  only  to  addresses 
designated  beforehand  and  found  respectable  poor 
people,  sometimes  a  little  ailing,  but  far  too  clean, 
already  enrolled  and  relieved  by  the  rich  charitable 
organizations  of  the  Church.  They  never  happened 
upon  one  of  those  loathsome  homes,  where  hunger, 
mourning,  abject  poverty,  all  forms  of  misery, 
physical  and  moral,  are  written  in  filth  on  the  walls, 
in  indelible  wrinkles  on  the  faces.  Their  visit  was 
arranged  in  advance  like  that  of  the  sovereign  to 
the  guard-house  to  taste  the  soldier's  soup ;  the 
guard-house  is  notified  and  the  soup  seasoned  for 
the  royal  palate.  Have  you  seen  those  pictures  in 
religious  books,  where  a  little  communicant,  with 
his  bow  on  his  arm  and  his  taper  in  his  hand,  all 
combed  and  curled,  goes  to  assist  a  poor  old  man 
lying  on  his  wretched  pallet  with  the  whites  of  his 
eyes  turned  up  to  the  sky?  These  charitable  visits 
had  the  same  conventional  stage-setting  and  accent. 
The  machine-like  gestures  of  the  Httle  preachers 
with  arms  too  short  for  the  work,  were  answered 
by  words  learned  by  rote,  so  false  as  to  set  one's 
teeth  on  edge.  The  comical  words  of  encourage- 
ment, the  "  consolation  lavishly  poured  forth  "  in 
prize-book  phrases  by  voices  suggestive  of  young 
roosters  with  the  influenza,  called  forth  emotional 
blessings,  the  whining,  sickening  mummery  of  a 
church  porch  after  vespers.  And  as  soon  as  the 
young  visitors'  backs  were  turned,  what  an  explo- 


Jansoulet  at  Home,  167 

sion  of  laughter  and  shouting  in  the  garret,  what  a 
dancing  around  the  ofiferings  brought,  what  an 
overturning  of  armchairs  in  which  they  have  been 
feigning  illness,  what  a  pouring  of  boluses  into  the 
fire,  a  fire  of  ashes,  very  artistically  arranged ! 
When  the  little  Jansoulets  went  to  visit  their 
parents,  they  were  placed  in  charge  of  the  man 
with  the  red  fez,  Bompain  the  indispensable.  It 
was  Bompain  who  took  them  to  the  Champs- 
Iilysees,  arrayed  in  English  jackets,  silk  hats  of 
the  latest  style  —  at  seven  years  !  —  and  with  little 
canes  dangling  from  the  ends  of  their  dogskin 
gloves.  It  was  Bompain  who  superintended  the 
victualling  of  the  break  on  which  he  went  with  the 
children  to  the  races,  race-cards  stuck  in  their 
hats  around  which  green  veils  were  twisted,  won- 
derfully like  the  characters  in  lilliputian  panto- 
mimes whose  comicality  consists  solely  in  the  size 
of  their  heads  compared  with  their  short  legs  and 
dwarfish  movements.  They  smoked  and  drank 
outrageously.  Sometimes  the  man  in  the  fez, 
himself  hardly  able  to  stand,  brought  them  home 
horribly  ill.  And  yet  Jansoulet  loved  his  little 
ones,  especially  the  youngest,  who,  with  his  long 
hair  and  his  doll-like  aspect,  reminded  him  of 
little  Afchin  in  her  carriage.  But  they  were  still 
at  the  age  when  children  belong  to  the  mother, 
when  neither  a  stylish  tailor  nor  accomplished 
masters  nor  a  fashionable  boarding-  ;chool  nor  the 
ponies  saddled  for  the  little  men  .n  the  stable, 
when  nothing  in  short  takes  the  place  of  the  watch- 
ful and  attentive  hand,  the  warmth  and  gayety  of 


1 68  The  Nabob. 

the  nest.  The  father  was  unable  to  give  them  that 
in  any  event ;   and  then  he  was  so  busy ! 

A  thousand  matters,  the  Caisse  Territoriale,  the 
arrangement  of  the  picture  gallery,  races  at  Tatter- 
sail's  with  Bois-l'Hery,  some  gimcrack  to  go  and 
see,  here  or  there,  at  the  houses  of  collectors 
to  whom  Schwalbach  recommended  him,  hours 
passed  with  trainers,  jockeys,  dealers  in  curiosi- 
ties, the  occupied,  varied  existence  of  a  bourgeois 
gentleman  in  modern  Paris.  In  all  this  going  and 
coming  he  succeeded  in  Parisianizing  himself  a 
little  more  each  day,  was  admitted  to  Monpavon's 
club,  made  welcome  in  the  green-room  at  the 
ballet,  behind  the  scenes  at  the  theatre,  and  con- 
tinued to  preside  at  his  famous  bachelor  break- 
fasts, the  only  entertainments  possible  in  his 
establishment.  His  existence  was  really  very  full, 
and  yet  de  Gery  relieved  him  from  the  most  diffi- 
cult part  of  it,  the  complicated  department  of 
solicitations  and  contributions. 

The  young  man  was  now  a  witness,  as  he  sat 
at  his  desk,  of  all  the  audacious  and  burlesque 
inventions,  all  the  heroi-comic  schemes  of  that 
mendicancy  of  a  great  city,  organized  like  a  minis- 
terial department  and  in  numbers  like  an  army, 
which  subscribes  to  the  newspapers  and  knows  its 
Bottin  by  heart.  It  was  his  business  to  receive 
the  fair-haired  lady,  young,  brazen-faced  and 
already  faded,  who  asks  for  only  a  hundred  louis, 
threatening  to  throw  herself  into  the  water  imme- 
diately upon  leaving  the  house  if  they  are  not 
forthcoming,   and  the  stout  matron,  with  affable, 


Jansoulet  at  Home.  169 

unceremonious  manners,  who  says  on  entering  the 
room :  "  Monsieur,  you  do  not  know  me.  Nor 
have  I  the  honor  of  knowing  you ;  but  we  shall 
soon  know  each  other.  Be  kind  enough  to  sit 
down  and  let  us  talk."  The  tradesman  in  diffi- 
culties, on  the  brink  of  insolvency  —  it  is  some- 
times true  —  who  comes  to  entreat  you  to  save 
his  honor,  with  a  pistol  all  ready  for  suicide  bulg- 
ing out  the  pocket  of  his  coat  —  sometimes  it  is 
only  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  And  oftentimes  cases 
of  genuine  distress,  prolix  and  tiresome,  of  people 
who  do  not  even  know  how  to  tell  how  unfitted 
they  are  to  earn  their  living.  Besides  such  in- 
stances of  avowed  mendicancy,  there  were  others 
in  disguise :  charity,  philanthropy,  good  works, 
encouragement  of  artists,  house-to-house  collec- 
tions for  children's  hospitals,  parish  churches, 
penitentiaries,  benevolent  societies  or  district  li- 
braries. And  lastly  those  that  array  themselves 
in  a  worldly  mask :  tickets  to  concerts,  benefit  per- 
formances, tickets  of  all  colors,  "  platform,  front 
row,  reserved  sections."  The  Nabob's  orders  were 
that  no  one  should  be  refused,  and  it  was  a  decided 
gain  that  he  no  longer  attended  to  such  matters  in 
person.  For  a  long  time  he  had  deluged  all  this 
hypocritical  scheming  with  gold,  with  lordly  indif- 
ference, paying  five  hundred  francs  for  a  ticket 
to  a  concert  by  some  Wurtemberg  zither-player, 
or  Languedocian  flutist,  which  would  have  been 
quoted  at  ten  francs  at  the  Tuileries  or  the  Due  de 
Mora's.  On  some  days  young  de  Gery  went  out 
from   these  sessions  actually   nauseated.     All    his 


170  The  Nabob. 

youthful  honesty  rose  in  revolt ;  he  attempted  to 
induce  the  Nabob  to  institute  some  reforms ;  but 
he,  at  the  first  word,  assumed  the  bored  expression 
characteristic  of  weak  natures  when  called  upon 
to  give  an  opinion,  or  else  replied  with  a  shrug 
of  his  great  shoulders :  "  Why  this  is  Paris,  my 
dear  child.  Don't  you  be  alarmed,  but  just  let 
me  alone.  I  know  where  I  'm  going  and  what 
I  want." 

He  wanted  two  things  at  that  time,  —  a  seat  in 
the  Chamber  of  Deputies  and  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  In  his  view  those  were  the 
first  two  stages  of  the  long  ascent  which  his  ambi- 
tion impelled  him  to  undertake.  He  certainly 
would  be  chosen  a  deputy  through  the  Caisse 
Territoriale,  at  the  head  of  which  he  was.  Paga- 
netti  from  Porto-Vecchio  often  said  to  him : 

"  When  the  day  comes,  the  island  will  rise  as 
one  man  and  vote  for  you." 

But  electors  were  not  the  only  thing  it  was 
necessary  to  have ;  there  must  be  a  vacant  seat 
in  the  Chamber,  and  the  delegation  from  Corsica 
was  full.  One  member,  however,  old  Popolasca, 
being  infirm  and  in  no  condition  to  perform  his 
duties,  might  be  willing  to  resign  on  certain  condi- 
tions. It  was  a  delicate  matter  to  negotiate,  but 
quite  practicable,  for  the  good  man  had  a  large 
family,  estates  which  produced  almost  nothing,  a 
ruined  palace  at  Bastia,  where  his  children  lived 
on  polejita,  and  an  apartment  at  Paris,  in  a  fur- 
nished lodging-house  of  the  eighteenth  order.  By 
not  haggling  over  one  or  two  hundred  thousand 


Jansoulet  at  Home.  171 

francs,  they  might  come  to  terms  with  that  fam- 
ished legislator  who,  when  sounded  by  Paganetti, 
did  not  say  yes  or  no,  being  allured  by  the  magni- 
tude of  the  sum  but  held  back  by  the  vainglory 
of  his  office.  The  affair  was  in  that  condition  and 
might  be  decided  any  day. 

With  regard  to  the  Cross,  the  prospect  was  even 
brighter.  The  Work  of  Bethlehem  had  certainly 
created  a  great  sensation  at  the  Tuileries.  Noth- 
ing was  now  wanting  but  M.  de  La  Perri^re's  visit 
and  his  report,  which  could  not  fail  to  be  favor- 
able, to  ensure  the  appearance  on  the  list  of  March 
1 6th,  the  date  of  an  imperial  anniversary,  of  the 
glorious  name  of  Jansoulet.  The  i6th  of  March, 
that  is  to  say,  within  a  month.  What  would  old 
Hemerlingue  say  to  that  signal  distinction  ?  —  old 
Hemerlingue,  who  had  had  to  be  content  with  the 
Nisham  for  so  long.  And  the  bey,  who  had  been 
made  to  believe  that  Jansoulet  was  under  the  ban 
of  Parisian  society,  and  the  old  mother,  down  at 
Saint-Romans,  who  was  always  so  happy  over  her 
son's  successes !  Was  not  all  that  worth  a  few 
millions  judiciously  distributed  and  strewn  by  that 
road  leading  to  renown,  along  which  the  Nabob 
walked  like  a  child,  with  no  fear  of  being  devoured 
at  the  end?  And  was  there  not  in  these  external 
joys,  these  honors,  this  dearly  bought  considera- 
tion, a  measure  of  compensation  for  all  the  cha- 
grins of  that  Oriental  won  back  to  European  life, 
who  longed  for  a  home  and  had  naught  but  a 
caravansary,  who  sought  a  wife  and  found  naught 
but  a  Levantine? 


172  The  Nabob. 


VIII. 

■ 

THE   WORK   OF   BETHLEHEM. 

Bethlehem  !  Why  did  that  legendary  name, 
sweet  to  the  ear,  warm  as  the  straw  in  the  miracu- 
lous stable,  give  you  such  a  cold  shudder  when 
you  saw  it  in  gilt  letters  over  that  iron  gateway? 
The  feeling  was  due  perhaps  to  the  melancholy 
landscape,  the  vast,  desolate  plain  that  stretches 
from  Nanterre  to  Saint-Cloud,  broken  only  by  an 
occasional  clump  of  trees  or  the  smoke  from  some 
factory  chimney.  Perhaps,  too,  in  a  measure,  to 
the  disproportion  between  the  humble  hamlet  of 
Judaea  and  that  grandiose  structure,  that  villa  in 
the  style  of  Louis  XIII.,  built  of  small  stones  and 
mortar,  and  showing  pink  through  the  leafless 
branches  of  the  park,  where  there  were  several 
large  ponds  with  a  coating  of  green  slime.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  on  passing  the  place  one's  heart  con- 
tracted. When  one  entered  the  grounds  it  was 
much  worse.  An  oppressive,  inexplicable  silence 
hovered  about  the  house,  where  the  faces  at  the 
windows  had  a  depressing  aspect  behind  the  small 
old-fashioned,  greenish  panes.  The  she-goats, 
straying   along  the  paths,  languidly  cropped  the 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  173 

first  shoots  of  grass,  with  occasional  "  baas  "  in  the 
direction  of  their  keeper,  who  seemed  as  bored  as 
they,  and  followed  visitors  with  a  listless  eye. 
There  was  an  air  of  mourning,  the  deserted,  terri- 
fied aspect  of  a  plague-stricken  spot.  Yet  that 
had  once  been  an  attractive,  cheerful  property, 
and  there  had  been  much  feasting  and  revelry 
there  not  long  before.  It  had  been  laid  out  for 
the  famous  singer  who  had  sold  it  to  Jenkins,  and 
it  exhibited  traces  of  the  imaginative  genius  pecu- 
liar to  the  operatic  stage,  in  the  bridge  across  the 
pond,  where  there  was  a  sunken  wherry  filled  with 
water-soaked  leaves,  and  in  its  summer-house,  all  of 
rockwork,  covered  with  climbing  ivy.  It  had  seen 
some  droll  sights,  had  that  summer-house,  in  the 
singer's  time,  and  now  it  saw  some  sad  ones,  for 
the  infirmary  was  located  there. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  establishment  was 
simply  one  huge  infirmary.  The  children  fell  sick 
as  soon  as  they  arrived,  languished  and  finally  died 
unless  their  parents  speedily  removed  them  to  the 
safe  shelter  of  their  homes.  The  cure  of  Nanterre 
went  so  often  to  Bethlehem  with  his  black  vest- 
ments and  his  silver  crucifix,  the  undertaker  had 
so  many  orders  for  coffins  for  the  house,  that  it 
was  talked  about  in  the  neighborhood,  and  indig- 
nant mothers  shook  their  fists  at  the  model  nursery, 
but  only  at  a  safe  distance  if  they  happened  to  have 
in  their  arms  a  little  pink  and  white  morsel  of 
humanity  to  shelter  from  all  the  contagions  of  that 
spot.  That  was  what  gave  the  miserable  place 
such  a  heart-rending  look.     A  house  where  chil- 


174  The  Nabob. 

dren  die  cannot  be  cheerful ;  it  is  impossible  for 
the  trees  to  bloom  there,  or  the  birds  to  nest,  or 
the  water  to  flow  in  laughing  ripples  of  foam. 

The  institution  seemed  to  be  fairly  inaugurated. 
Jenkins'  idea,  excellent  in  theory,  was  extremely 
difficult,  almost  impracticable,  in  practice.  And 
yet  God  knows  that  the  affair  had  been  carried 
through  with  an  excess  of  zeal  as  to  every  detail, 
even  the  most  trifling,  and  that  all  the  money  and 
attendants  necessary  were  forthcoming.  At  the 
head  of  the  establishment  was  one  of  the  most  skil- 
ful men  in  the  profession,  M.  Pondevez,  a  graduate 
of  the  Paris  hospitals ;  and  associated  with  him,  to 
take  more  direct  charge  of  the  children,  a  trust- 
worthy woman,  Madame  Polge.  Then  there  were 
maids  and  seamstresses  and  nurses.  And  how 
perfectly  everything  was  arranged  and  systema- 
tized, from  the  distribution  of  the  water  through 
fifty  faucets,  to  the  omnibus  with  its  driver  in  the 
Bethlehem  livery,  going  to  the  station  at  Rueil  to 
meet  every  train,  with  a  great  jingling  of  bells. 
And  the  magnificent  goats,  goats  from  Thibet, 
with  long  silky  coats  and  bursting  udders.  Every- 
thing was  beyond  praise  in  the  organization  of  the 
establishment;  but  there  was  one  point  at  which 
everything  went  to  pieces.  This  artificial  nursing, 
so  belauded  in  the  prospectus,  did  not  agree  with 
the  children.  It  was  a  strange  obstinacy,  as  if  they 
conspired  together  with  a  glance,  the  poor  little 
creatures,  for  they  were  too  young  to  speak  —  most 
of  them  were  destined  never  to  speak —  "  If  you 
say  so,  we  won't  suck  the  goats."     And  they  did 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  175 

not,  they  preferred  to  die  one  after  another  rather 
than  to  suck  them.  Was  Jesus  of  Bethlehem 
nursed  by  a  goat  in  his  stable?  Did  he  not,  on 
the  contrary,  nestle  against  a  woman's  breast,  soft 
and  full,  on  which  he  fell  asleep  when  his  thirst 
was  satisfied?  Who  ever  saw  a  goat  among  the 
legendary  oxen  and  asses  on  that  night  when  the 
beasts  spoke?  In  that  case,  why  lie,  why  call  it 
Bethlehem? 

The  manager  was  touched  at  first  by  so  many 
deaths.  This  Pondevez,  a  waif  and  estray  of  the 
life  of  the  Quarter,  a  twentieth  year  student  well 
known  in  all  the  fruit-shops  of  Boulevard  Saint- 
Michel  under  the  name  of  Pompon,  was  not  a  bad 
man.  When  he  realized  the  failure  of  artificial 
nursing,  he  simply  hired  four  or  five  buxom  nurses 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  nothing  more  was  needed 
to  revive  the  children's  appetites.  That  humane 
impulse  was  near  costing  him  his  place. 

"  Nurses  at  Bethlehem,"  said  Jenkins  in  a  rage, 
when  he  came  to  pay  his  weekly  visit.  "  Are  you 
mad?  Upon  my  word!  why  the  goats  then,  and 
the  lawns  to  feed  them,  and  my  idea,  and  the 
pamphlets  about  my  idea?  What  becomes  of  all 
these?  Why,  you're  going  against  my  system, 
you  're  stealing  the  founder's  money." 

"  But,  my  dear  master,"  the  student  tried  to 
reply,  passing  his  hands  through  his  long  red 
beard,  "but — as  they  don't  like  that  food  —  " 

"  Very  well !  let  them  go  hungry,  but  let  the 
principle  of  artificial  nursing  be  respected.  Every- 
thing depends  on  that.     I  don't  wish  to  have  to 


176  The  Nabob. 

tell  you  so  again.  Send  away  those  horrible  nurses. 
For  bringing  up  our  children  we  have  goat's  milk 
and  cow's  milk  in  a  great  emergency ;  but  I  can't 
concede  anything  beyond  that." 

He  added,  with  his  apostolic  air : 

"  We  are  here  to  demonstrate  a  grand  philan- 
thropic idea.  It  must  triumph,  even  at  the  cost 
of  some  sacrifices.     Look  to  it." 

Pondevez  did  not  insist.  After  all,  it  was  a  good 
place,  near  enough  to  Paris  to  permit  descents 
upon  Nanterre  from  the  Quarter  on  Sunday,  or  a 
visit  by  the  manager  to  his  favorite  breweries. 
Madame  Polge  —  whom  Jenkins  always  called  "our 
intelligent  overseer,"  and  whom  he  had  in  fact 
placed  there  to  oversee  everything,  the  manager 
first  of  all  —  was  not  so  austere  as  her  duties  would 
lead  one  to  believe,  and  readily  yielded  to  the 
charm  of  ^  petit  vcrj-e  or  two  of  "  right  cognac," 
or  to  a  game  of  bezique  for  fifteen  hundred  points. 
So  he  dismissed  the  nurses  and  tried  to  harden 
himself  against  whatever  might  happen.  What 
did  happen?  A  genuine  Massacre  of  the  Inno- 
cents. So  that  the  few  parents  who  were  possessed 
of  any  means  at  all,  mechanics  or  tradesmen  of 
the  faubourgs,  who  had  been  tempted  by  the  adver- 
tisements to  part  with  their  children,  speedily  took 
them  away,  and  there  remained  in  the  establish- 
ment only  the  wretched  little  creatures  picked  up 
under  porches  or  in  the  fields,  or  sent  by  the 
hospitals,  and  doomed  from  their  birth  to  all 
manner  of  ills.  As  the  mortality  constantly  in- 
creased, even  that  source  of  supply  failed,  and  the 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  177 

omnibus  that  had  departed  at  full  speed  for  the 
railway  station  returned  as  light  and  springy  as 
an  empty  hearse.  How  could  that  state  of  affairs 
last?  How  long  would  it  take  to  kill  off  the 
twenty-five  or  thirty  little  ones  who  were  left? 
That  is  what  the  manager,  or,  as  he  had  christened 
himself,  the  register  of  deaths,  Pondevez,  was 
wondering  one  morning  after  breakfast,  as  he  sat 
opposite  Madame  Polge's  venerable  curls,  taking 
a  hand  at  that  lady's  favorite  game. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Madame  Polge,  what  is  to  be- 
come of  us?  Things  cannot  go  on  long  like  this. 
Jenkins  won't  give  in,  the  children  are  as  obstinate 
as  mules.  There  's  no  gainsaying  it,  they  '11  all 
pass  out  of  our  hands.  There  's  that  little  Wal- 
lachian  —  I  mark  the  king,  Madame  Polge  —  who 
may  die  any  minute.  Poor  little  brat,  just  think,  it 's 
three  days  since  anything  went  into  his  stomach. 
I  don't  care  what  Jenkins  says ;  you  can't  improve 
children,  like  snails,  by  starving  them.  It 's  a  dis- 
tressing thing  not  to  be  able  to  save  a  single  one. 
The  infirmary  has  n't  unlimited  capacity.  In  all 
earnestness  this  is  a  pitiful  business.  Bezique, 
forty." 

Two  strokes  of  the  bell  at  the  main  entrance 
interrupted  his  monologue.  The  omnibus  was 
returning  from  the  station  and  its  wheels  ground 
into  the  gravel  in  unaccustomed  fashion. 

"  What  an  astonishing  thing !  "  said  Pondevez, 
"  the  carriage  is  n't  empty." 

In  truth  the  vehicle  drew  up  at  the  steps  with  a 
certain  pride,  and  the  man  who  alighted  crossed 
VOL.  I.  — 12 


178  The  Nabob. 

the  threshold  at  a  bound.  It  was  an  express  from 
Jenkins  with  important  news ;  the  doctor  would 
be  there  in  two  hours  to  inspect  the  asylum,  with 
the  Nabob  and  a  gentleman  from  the  Tuileries. 
He  gave  strict  injunctions  that  everything  should 
be  ready  for  their  reception.  The  plan  was  formed 
so  suddenly  that  he  had  not  had  time  to  write ;  but 
he  relied  on  M.  Pondevez  to  make  the  necessary 
arrangements. 

"  Deuce  take  him  and  his  necessary  arrange- 
ments !  "  muttered  Pondevez  in  dismay.  It  was  a 
critical  situation.  That  momentous  visit  came  at 
the  worst  possible  moment,  when  the  system  was 
rapidly  going  to  pieces.  Poor  Pompon,  in  dire 
perplexity,  tugged  at  his  beard  and  gnawed  the 
ends  of  it. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said  abruptly  to  Madame 
Polge,  whose  long  face  had  grown  still  longer 
between  her  false  curls.  "  There  is  only  one  thing 
for  us  to  do.  We  must  clear  out  the  infirmary, 
carry  all  the  sick  ones  into  the  dormitory.  They  '11 
be  no  better  nor  worse  for  spending  half  a  day 
there.  As  for  the  scrofulous  ones,  we  '11  just  put 
them  out  of  sight.  They  're  too  ugly,  we  won't 
show  them.  Come,  off  we  go !  all  hands  on 
deck!" 

The  dinner-bell  rang  the  alarm  and  everybody 
hurried  to  the  spot.  Seamstresses,  nurses,  maid- 
servants, came  running  from  every  side,  jostling 
one  another  in  the  corridors,  hurrying  across  the 
yards.  Orders  flew  hither  and  thither,  and  there 
was   a   great   calling    and    shouting;     but   above 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  1 79 

all  the  other  noises  soared  the  noise  of  a  grand 
scrubbing,  of  rushing  water,  as  if  Bethlehem  had 
been  surprised  by  a  conflagration.  And  the  wail- 
ing of  sick  children  torn  from  their  warm  beds, 
all  the  whimpering  little  bundles  carried  through 
the  damp  park,  with  a  fluttering  of  bedclothes 
among  the  branches,  strengthened  the  impression 
of  a  fire.  In  two  hours,  thanks  to  the  prodigious 
activity  displayed,  the  whole  house  from  top  to 
bottom  was  ready  for  the  impending  visit,  all  the 
members  of  the  staff  at  their  posts,  the  fire  lighted 
in  the  stove,  the  goats  scattered  picturesquely 
through  the  park.  Madame  Polge  had  put  on  her 
green  dress,  the  manager's  attire  was  a  little  less 
slovenly  than  usual,  but  so  simple  as  to  exclude 
any  idea  of  premeditation.  Let  the  Empress's 
secretary  come ! 

And  here  he  is. 

He  alights  with  Jenkins  and  Jansoulet  from  a 
magnificent  carriage  with  the  Nabob's  red  and 
gold  livery.  Feigning  the  utmost  astonishment, 
Pondevez  rushes  forward  to  meet  his  visitors. 

"  Ah  !  Monsieur  Jenkins,  what  an  honor  !  What 
a  surprise !  " 

Salutations  are  exchanged  on  the  stoop,  rever- 
ences, handshakings,  introductions.  Jenkins,  his 
coat  thrown  back  from  his  loyal  breast,  indulges 
in  his  heartiest,  most  engaging  smile ;  but  a  mean- 
ing furrow  lies  across  his  brow.  He  is  anxious  con- 
cerning the  surprises  that  the  establishment  may 
have  in  store,  for  he  knows  its  demoralized  condi- 
tion.    If  only  Pondevez  has  taken  proper  precau- 


i8o  The  Nabob. 

tions !  It  begins  well,  however.  The  somewhat 
theatrical  aspect  of  the  approach  to  the  house,  the 
white  fleeces  gambolling  among  the  shrubbery, 
have  enchanted  M.  de  La  Perriere,  who,  with  his 
innocent  eyes,  his  straggling  white  beard  and  the 
constant  nodding  of  his  head,  is  not  himself  unlike 
a  goat  escaped  from  its  tether. 

"  First  of  all,  messieurs,  the  most  important 
room  in  the  house,  the  Nursery,"  says  the  mana- 
ger, opening  a  massive  door  at  the  end  of  the 
reception-room.  The  gentlemen  follow  him,  de- 
scend a  few  steps  and  find  themselves  in  an  enor- 
mous basement  room,  with  tiled  floor,  formerly 
the  kitchen  of  the  chateau.  The  thing  that  im- 
presses one  on  entering  is  a  huge,  high  fireplace 
of  the  old  pattern,  in  red  brick,  with  two  stone 
benches  facing  each  other  under  the  mantel,  and 
the  singer's  crest  —  an  immense  lyre  with  a  roll 
of  music  —  carved  on  the  monumental  pediment. 
The  effect  was  striking ;  but  there  came  from  it  a 
terrible  blast  of  air,  which,  added  to  the  cold  of 
the  floor,  to  the  pale  light  falling  through  the 
windows  on  a  level  with  the  ground,  made  one 
shudder  for  the  well-being  of  the  children.  What 
would  you  have?  They  were  obliged  to  use  that 
unhealthy  apartment  for  the  Nursery  because  of 
the  capricious,  country-bred  nurses  who  were  ac- 
customed to  the  unconstrained  manners  of  the 
stable ;  one  had  only  to  see  the  pools  of  milk, 
the  great  reddish  spots  drying  on  the  floor,  to 
inhale  the  acrid  odor  that  assailed  your  nostrils 
as  you  entered,  mingled  with  whey  and  moist  hair 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  i8i 

and  many  other  things,  to  be  convinced  of  that 
absolute  necessity. 

The  dark  walls  of  the  room  were  so  high  that 
at  first  the  visitors  thought  that  the  Nursery  was 
deserted.  They  distinguished,  however,  at  the 
farther  end,  a  bleating,  whining,  restless  group. 
Two  countrywomen,  with  surly,  brutish,  dirty 
faces,  two  "  dry-nurses,"  who  well  deserved  their 
name,  were  sitting  on  mats  with  their  nurslings 
in  their  arms,  each  having  a  large  goat  before  her, 
with  legs  apart  and  distended  udders.  The  mana- 
ger seemed  to  be  agreeably  surprised : 

"  On  my  word,  messieurs,  this  is  a  lucky  chance. 
Two  of  our  children  are  having  a  little  lunch.  We 
will  see  how  nurses  and  nurslings  agree." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  man?  He  is 
mad,"  said  Jenkins  to  himself,  in  dire  dismay. 

But  the  manager  was  very  clear-headed,  on  the 
contrary,  and  had  himself  shrewdly  arranged  the 
scene,  selecting  two  patient,  good-natured  beasts, 
and  two  exceptional  subjects,  two  little  idiots  who 
were  determined  to  live  at  any  price,  and  opened 
their  mouths  to  nourishment  of  any  sort,  like  little 
birds  still  in  the  nest. 

"  Come,  messieurs,  and  see  for  yourselves." 

The  cherubs  were  really  nursing.  One  of  them, 
cuddled  under  the  goat's  belly,  went  at  it  so  heartily 
that  you  could  hear  the  glou-glou  of  the  warm  milk 
as  it  went  down,  down  into  his  little  legs,  which 
quivered  with  satisfaction.  The  other,  more  calm, 
lay  indolently  in  his  Auvergnat  nurse's  lap,  and 
required  some  little  encouragement  from  her. 


1 82  The  Nabob. 

"  Come,  suck,  I  tell  you,  suck,  hougri  !  " 

At  last,  as  if  he  had  formed  a  sudden  resolution, 
he  began  to  drink  so  greedily  that  the  woman,  sur- 
prised by  his  abnormal  appetite,  leaned  over  him 
and  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh : 

"  Ah !  the  scamp,  what  a  mischievous  trick ! 
it's  his  thumb  he  's  sucking  instead  of  the  goat." 

He  had  thought  of  that  expedient,  the  angel,  to 
induce  them  to  leave  him  in  peace.  The  incident 
produced  no  ill  effect;  on  the  contrary,  M.  de  La 
Perriere  was  much  amused  at  the  nurse's  idea  that 
the  child  had  tried  to  play  a  trick  on  them.  He 
left  the  Nursery  highly  delighted.  "  Positively  de- 
de-delighted,"  he  repeated  as  they  ascended  the 
grand  echoing  staircase,  decorated  with  stags' 
antlers,  which  led  to  the  dormitory. 

Very  light  and  airy  was  that  great  room, 
occupying  the  whole  of  one  side  of  the  house, 
with  numerous  windows,  cradles  at  equal  inter- 
vals, with  curtains  as  white  and  fleecy  as  clouds. 
Women  were  passing  to  and  fro  in  the  broad 
passage-way  in  the  centre,  with  piles  of  linen  in 
their  arms,  keys  in  their  hands,  overseers  or 
"  movers."  Here  they  had  tried  to  do  too  much, 
and  the  first  impression  of  the  visitors  was  un- 
favorable. All  that  white  muslin,  that  waxed 
floor,  in  which  the  light  shone  without  blend- 
ing, the  clean  window-panes  reflecting  the  sky, 
which  wore  a  gloomy  look  at  sight  of  such 
things,  brought  out  more  distinctly  the  thinness, 
the  sickly  pallor  of  those  little  shroud-colored, 
moribund  creatures.     Alas !   the  oldest  were  but 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  183 

six  months,  the  youngest  barely  a  fortnight,  and 
already,  upon  all  those  faces,  those  embryotic 
faces,  there  was  an  expression  of  disgust,  an  old- 
ish, dogged  look,  a  precocity  born  of  suffering, 
visible  in  the  numberless  wrinkles  on  those  little 
bald  heads,  confined  in  linen  caps  edged  with 
tawdry  hospital  lace.  From  what  did  they  suffer? 
What  disease  had  they?  They  had  everything, 
everything  that  one  can  have  ;  diseases  of  children 
and  diseases  of  adults.  Offspring  of  poverty  and 
vice,  they  brought  into  the  world  when  they  were 
born  ghastly  phenomena  of  heredity.  One  had  a 
cleft  palate,  another  great  copper-colored  blotches 
on  his  forehead,  and  all  were  covered  with  humor. 
And  then  they  were  starving  to  death.  Notwith- 
standing the  spoonfuls  of  milk  and  sugared  water 
that  were  forced  into  their  mouths,  and  the  suck- 
ing-bottle that  was  used  more  or  less  in  spite  of 
the  prohibition,  they  were  dying  of  inanition. 
Those  poor  creatures,  exhausted  before  they  were 
born,  needed  the  freshest,  the  most  strengthening 
food ;  the  goats  might  perhaps  have  supplied  it, 
but  they  had  sworn  not  to  suck  the  goats.  And 
that  was  what  made  the  dormitory  lugubrious  and 
silent,  without  any  of  the  little  outbursts  of  anger 
emphasized  by  clenched  fists,  without  any  of  the 
shrieks  that  show  the  even  red  gums,  whereby  the 
child  makes  trial  of  his  strength  and  of  his  lungs ; 
only  an  occasional  plaintive  groan,  as  if  the  soul 
were  tossing  and  turning  restlessly  in  a  little 
diseased  body,  unable  to  find  a  place  to  rest. 
Jenkins  and  the  manager,  noticing  the  unfavor- 


1 84  The  Nabob. 

able  impression  produced  upon  their  guests  by  the 
visit  to  the  dormitory,  tried  to  enliven  the  situation 
by  talking  very  loud,  with  a  good-humored,  frank, 
well-satisfied  manner.  Jenkins  shook  hands  warmly 
with  the  overseer. 

"  Well,  Madame  Polge,  are  our  little  pupils  get- 
ting on?" 

"  As  you  see,  Monsieur  le  Docteur,"  she  replied, 
pointing  to  the  beds. 

Very  funereal  in  her  green  dress  was  tall 
Madame  Polge,  the  ideal  of  dry  nurses;  she  com- 
pleted the  picture. 

But  where  had  the  Empress's  secretary  gone? 
He  was  standing  by  a  cradle,  which  he  was  scrutin- 
izing sadly,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Bigre  de  Bigre ! "  whispered  Pompon  to 
Madame  Polge.     "It's  the  Wallachian." 

The  little  blue  card,  hanging  above  the  cradle 
as  in  hospitals,  set  forth  the  nationality  of  the 
child  within  :  "  Moldo-Wallachian."  What  cursed 
luck  that  Monsieur  le  Secretaire's  eye  should 
happen  to  light  upon  him  !  Oh !  the  poor  little 
head  lying  on  the  pillow,  with  cap  all  awry,  nos- 
trils contracted,  lips  parted  by  a  short,  panting 
breath,  the  breath  of  those  who  are  just  born  and 
of  those  who  are  about  to  die. 

"Is  he  ill?"  the  secretary  softly  asked  the 
manager,  who  had  drawn  near. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  the  audacious  Pom- 
pon, and  he  walked  to  the  cradle,  poked  the  little 
one  playfully  with  his  finger,  rearranged  the  pil- 
low, and  said  in  a  hearty,  affectionate  voice,  albeit 


The   Work  of  Bethlehejn.  185 

a  little  roughly:  "Well,  old  fellow?"  Roused 
from  his  stupor,  emerging  from  the  torpor  which 
already  enveloped  him,  the  little  fellow  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  at  the  faces  bending  over  him, 
with  sullen  indifference,  then,  returning  to  his 
dream  which  he  deemed  more  attractive,  clenched 
his  little  wrinkled  hands  and  heaved  an  inaudible 
sigh.  Oh  !  mystery  !  Who  can  say  for  what  pur- 
pose that  child  was  born?  To  suffer  two  months 
and  to  go  away  without  seeing  or  understanding 
anything,  before  anyone  had  heard  the  sound  of 
his  voice ! 

"  How  pale  he  is !  "  muttered  M.  de  La  Perriere, 
himself  as  pale  as  death.  The  Nabob,  too,  was  as 
white  as  a  sheet.  A  cold  breath  had  passed  over 
them.     The  manager  assumed  an  indifferent  air. 

"It's  the  reflection.     We  all  look  green." 

"To  be  sure  —  to  be  sure,"  said  Jenkins,  "it's 
the  reflection  of  the  pond.  Just  come  and  look. 
Monsieur  le  Secretaire."  And  he  led  him  to  the 
window  to  point  out  the  great  sheet  of  water  in 
which  the  willows  dipped  their  branches,  while 
Madame  Polge  hastily  closed  the  curtains  of  his 
cradle  upon  the  little  Wallachian's  never-ending 
dream. 

They  must  proceed  quickly  to  inspect  other 
portions  of  the  establishment  in  order  to  do  away 
with  that  unfortunate  impression. 

First  they  show  M.  de  La  Perriere  the  magnifi- 
cent laundry,  with  presses,  drying  machines,  ther- 
mometers, huge  closets  of  polished  walnut  full  of 
caps  and  nightgowns,  tied  together  and  labelled  by 


1 86  The  Nabob. 

dozens.  When  the  Hnen  was  well  warmed  the 
laundress  passed  it  out  through  a  little  wicket  in 
exchange  for  the  number  passed  in  by  the  nurse. 
As  you  see,  the  system  was  perfect,  and  every- 
thing, even  to  the  strong  smell  of  lye,  combined 
to  give  the  room  a  healthy,  country-like  aspect. 
There  were  garments  enough  there  to  clothe  five 
hundred  children.  That  was  the  capacity  of 
Bethlehem,  and  everything  was  provided  on  that 
basis :  the  vast  dispensary,  gleaming  with  glass 
jars  and  Latin  inscriptions,  with  marble  pestles  in 
every  corner ;  the  hydropathic  arrangements  with 
the  great  stone  tanks,  the  shining  tubs,  the  im- 
mense apparatus  traversed  by  pipes  of  all  lengths 
for  the  ascending  and  descending  douches,  in 
showers,  in  jets,  and  in  whip-like  streams ;  and  the 
kitchens  fitted  out  with  superb  graduated  copper 
kettles,  with  economical  coal  and  gas  ovens. 
Jenkins  had  determined  to  make  it  a  model  estab- 
lishment; and  it  was  an  easy  matter  for  him,  for  he 
had  worked  on  a  grand  scale,  as  one  works  when 
funds  are  abundant.  One  could  feel  everywhere, 
too,  the  experience  and  the  iron  hand  of  "  our 
intelligent  overseer,"  to  whom  the  manager  could 
not  forbear  to  do  public  homage.  That  was  the 
signal  for  general  congratulations.  M.  de  La 
Perriere,  delighted  with  the  equipment  of  the 
establishment,  congratulated  Dr.  Jenkins  upon  his 
noble  creation,  Jenkins  congratulated  his  friend 
Pondevez,  who  in  his  turn  thanked  the  secretary 
for  having  condescended  to  honor  Bethlehem  with 
a  visit.     The  good  Nabob  chimed  in  with  that  con- 


The   Work  of  BciJilehem.  187 

cert  of  laudation  and  had  a  pleasant  word  for 
every  one,  but  was  somewhat  astonished  all  the 
same  that  no  one  congratulated  him  too,  while 
they  were  about  it.  To  be  sure,  the  best  of  all 
congratulations  awaited  him  on  the  i6th  of  March 
at  the  head  of  the  Journal  Officic/,  in  a  decree 
which  gleamed  before  his  eyes  in  anticipation  and 
made  him  squint  in  the  direction  of  his  buttonhole. 

These  pleasant  words  were  exchanged  as  they 
walked  through  a  long  corridor  where  their  sen- 
tentious phrases  were  repeated  by  the  echoes ; 
but  suddenly  a  horrible  uproar  arrested  their  con- 
versation and  their  footsteps.  It  was  like  the 
miaouwing  of  frantic  cats,  the  bellowing  of  wild 
bulls,  the  howling  of  savages  dancing  the  war- 
dance —  a  frightful  tempest  of  human  yells,  re- 
peated and  increased  in  volume  and  prolonged  by 
the  high,  resonant  arches.  It  rose  and  fell,  stopped 
suddenly,  then  began  again  with  extraordinary  in- 
tensity. The  manager  was  disturbed,  and  started 
to  make  inquiries,  Jenkins'  eyes  were  inflamed 
with  rage. 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  said  the  manager,  really 
alarmed  this  time ;   "  I  know  what  it  is." 

He  did  know  what  it  was;  but  M.  de  La  Perriere 
proposed  to  know,  too,  and  before  Pondevez  could 
raise  his  hand,  he  pushed  open  the  heavy  door  of 
the  room  whence  that  fearful  concert  proceeded. 

In  a  vile  kennel  which  the  grand  scouring  had 
passed  by,  for  they  had  no  idea  of  exhibiting  it, 
some  half  score  little  monstrosities  lay  stretched 
on  mattresses  laid  side  by  side  on  the  floor,  under 


1 88  The  Nabob. 

the  guardianship  of  a  chair  unoccupied  save  by  an 
unfinished  piece  of  knitting,  and  a  little  cracked 
kettle,  full  of  hot  wine,  boiling  over  a  smoking 
wood  fire.  They  were  the  leprous,  the  scrofulous, 
the  outcasts  of  Bethlehem,  who  had  been  hidden 
away  in  that  retired  corner  —  with  injunctions  to 
their  dry  nurse  to  amuse  them,  to  pacify  them,  to 
sit  on  them  if  necessary,  so  that  they  should  not 
cry  —  but  whom  that  stupid,  inquisitive  country- 
woman had  left  to  themselves  while  she  went  to 
look  at  the  fine  carriage  standing  in  the  court- 
yard. When  her  back  was  turned  the  urchins 
soon  wearied  of  their  horizontal  position ;  and  all 
the  little,  red-faced,  blotched  croilte-leves  lifted  up 
their  robust  voices  in  concert,  for  they,  by  some 
miracle,  were  in  good  health,  their  very  disease 
saved  and  nourished  them.  As  wild  and  squirm- 
ing as  cockchafers  thrown  on  their  backs,  strug- 
gling to  rise  with  the  aid  of  knees  and  elbows,  — 
some  unable  to  recover  their  equilibrium  after 
falling  on  their  sides,  others  sitting  erect,  bewil- 
dered, their  little  legs  wrapped  in  swaddling- 
clothes,  they  spontaneously  ceased  their  writhings 
and  their  cries  when  they  saw  the  door  open  ;  but 
M.  de  La  Perriere's  shaking  beard  reassured  them, 
encouraged  them  to  fresh  eftbrts,  and  in  the  re- 
newed uproar  the  manager's  explanation  was 
almost  inaudible :  "  Children  that  are  kept  se- 
cluded —  contagion  —  skin  diseases."  Monsieur 
le  Secretaire  inquired  no  farther ;  less  heroic  than 
Bonaparte  when  he  visited  the  plague-stricken 
wretches   at  Jaffa,  he   rushed  to  the  door,  and  in 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  189 

his  confusion  and  alarm,  anxious  to  say  something 
and  unable  to  think  of  anything  appropriate,  he 
murmured,  with  an  ineffable  smile :  "  They  are 
cha-arming." 

The  inspection  concluded,  they  all  assembled  in 
the  salon  on  the  ground  floor,  where  Madame 
Polge  had  prepared  a  httle  collation.  The  cellars 
of  Bethlehem  were  well  stocked.  The  sharp  air 
of  the  high  land,  the  going  upstairs  and  down- 
stairs had  given  the  old  gentleman  from  the  Tuile- 
ries  such  an  appetite  as  he  had  not  had  for  many 
a  day,  so  that  he  talked  and  laughed  with  true 
rustic  good-fellowship,  and  when  they  were  all 
standing,  the  visitors  being  about  to  depart,  he 
raised  his  glass,  shaking  his  head  the  while,  to 
drink  this  toast:   "  To  Be-Be-Bethlehem  !  " 

The  others  were  much  affected,  there  was  a 
clinking  of  glasses,  and  then  the  carriage  bore  the 
party  swiftly  along  the  avenue  of  lindens,  where  a 
cold,  red,  rayless  sun  was  setting.  Behind  them 
the  park  relapsed  into  its  gloomy  silence.  Great 
dark  shadows  gathered  at  the  foot  of  the  hedges, 
invaded  the  house,  crept  stealthily  along  the  paths 
and  across  their  intersections.  Soon  everything 
was  in  darkness  save  the  ironical  letters  over  the 
entrance  gate,  and,  at  a  window  on  the  ground- 
floor,  a  flickering  red  glimmer,  the  flame  of  a 
taper  burning  by  the  pillow  of  the  dead  child. 

*^  By  decree  of  March  12,  1^6^,  promulgated  at  the 
reconiinendation  of  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  Afonsieur 
U  Docteur  Jenkins,  founder  and  president  of  the  Work 


190  The  Nabob. 

of  Bethlehem^  is  appointed  chevalier  of  the  Imperial 
Order  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Exemplary  devotion  to 
the  cause  of  humanity y 

When  he  read  these  lines  on  the  first  page  of 
the  Journal  Officiel^  on  the  morning  of  the  i6th, 
the  poor  Nabob  had  an  attack  of  vertigo. 

Was  it  possible? 

Jenkins  decorated  and  not  he  ! 

He  read  the  announcement  twice,  thinking  that 
his  eyes  must  have  deceived  him.  There  was  a 
buzzing  in  his  ears.  The  letters,  two  of  each, 
danced  before  his  eyes  with  the  red  circles  caused 
by  looking  at  the  sun.  He  had  been  so  certain 
of  seeing  his  name  in  that  place;  and  Jenkins — ■ 
only  the  day  before  —  had  said  to  him  so  confi- 
dently :  "  It  is  all  settled  !  "  that  it  still  seemed  to 
him  that  he  must  be  mistaken.  But  no,  it  was 
really  Jenkins.  It  was  a  deep,  heart-sickening, 
prophetic  blow,  like  a  first  warning  from  destiny, 
and  was  the  more  keenly  felt  because,  for  years 
past,  the  man  had  been  unaccustomed  to  disap- 
pointments, had  lived  above  humanity.  All  the 
good  that  there  was  in  him  learned  at  that  moment 
to  be  distrustful. 

"  Well,"  he  said  to  de  G^ry,  entering  his  room, 
as  he  did  every  morning,  and  surprising  him  with 
the  paper  in  his  hand  and  evidently  deeply  moved, 
"I  suppose  you  have  seen, — my  name  is  not  in 
the  Officiel?" 

He  tried  to  smile,  his  features  distorted  like 
those  of  a  child  struggling  to  restrain  his  tears. 
Then,  suddenly,  with  the  frankness   that  was   so 


The   Work  of  Bethlehem.  191 

attractive  in  him,  he  added :  "  This  makes  me  feel 
very  badly,  —  I  expected  too  much." 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  opened  and  Jenkins 
rushed  into  the  room,  breathless,  panting,  intensely 
agitated. 

"  It 's  an  outrage  —  a  horrible  outrage.  It  can- 
not, shall  not  be." 

The  words  rushed  tumultuously  to  his  lips,  all 
trying  to  come  out  at  once ;  then  he  seemed  to 
abandon  the  attempt  to  express  his  thoughts  and 
threw  upon  the  table  a  little  shagreen  box  and  a 
large  envelope,  both  bearing  the  stamp  of  the 
chancellor's  office. 

"  There  are  my  cross  and  my  letters  patent,"  he 
said.  "  They  are  yours,  my  friend,  I  cannot  keep 
them." 

In  reality  that  did  not  mean  much.  Jansoulet 
arraying  himself  in  Jenkins'  ribbon  would  speedily 
be  punished  for  unlawfully  wearing  a  decoration. 
But  a  coiLp  de  tJuhitre  is  not  necessarily  logical ; 
this  particular  one  led  to  an  effusion  of  sentiment, 
embraces,  a  generous  combat  between  the  two 
men,  the  result  being  that  Jenkins  restored  the 
objects  to  his  pocket,  talking  about  protests,  letters 
to  the  newspapers.  The  Nabob  was  obliged  to 
stop  him  again. 

"  Do  nothing  of  the  kind,  you  rascal.  In  the 
first  place,  it  would  stand  in  my  way  another 
time.  Who  knows?  perhaps  on  the  15th  of  next 
August  —  " 

"  Oh !  I  never  thought  of  that,"  cried  Jenkins, 
jumping  at  the  idea.     He  put  forth  his  arm,  as  in 


igi  The  Nabob. 

David's  Serment :  "  I  swear  it  by  my  sacred 
honor!" 

The  subject  dropped  there.  At  breakfast  the 
Nabob  did  not  refer  to  it  and  was  as  cheerful  as 
usual.  His  good  humor  lasted  through  the  day; 
and  de  Gery,  to  whom  that  scene  had  been  a  reve- 
lation of  the  real  Jenkins,  an  explanation  of  the 
satirical  remarks  and  restrained  wrath  of  Felicia 
Ruys  when  she  spoke  of  the  doctor,  asked  himself 
to  no  purpose  how  he  could  open  his  dear  master's 
eyes  concerning  that  scheming  hypocrite.  He 
should  have  known,  however,  that  the  men  of  the 
South,  all  effusiveness  on  the  surface,  are  never  so 
utterly  blind,  so  deluded  as  to  resist  the  wise  results 
of  reflection.  That  evening  the  Nabob  opened  a 
shabby  little  portfolio,  badly  worn  at  the  corners, 
in  which  for  ten  years  past  he  had  manoeuvred  his 
millions,  minuting  his  profits  and  his  expenses  in 
hieroglyphics  comprehensible  to  himself  alone. 
He  calculated  for  a  moment,  then  turned  to 
de  Gery. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  am  doing,  my  dear  Paul  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  I  have  just  been  reckoning  "  —  and  his  mock- 
ing glance,  eloquent  of  his  Southern  origin,  belied 
his  good-humored  smile  — "  t  have  just  been 
reckoning  that  I  have  spent  four  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  francs  to  obtain  that  decoration 
for  Jenkins." 

Four  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  francs  !  And 
the  end  was  not  yet. 


Grandmamma,  193 


IX. 

GRANDMAMMA. 

Three  times  a  week,  in  the  evening,  Paul  de  Gery 
appeared  to  take  his  lesson  in  bookkeeping  in  the 
Joyeuse  dining-room,  not  far  from  the  small  salon 
where  the  little  family  had  burst  upon  him  at  his 
first  visit ;  so  that,  while  he  was  being  initiated  into 
all  the  mysteries  of  "  debit  and  credit,"  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  his  white-cravated  instructor,  he 
listened  in  spite  of  himself  to  the  faint  sounds  of 
the  toilsome  evening  on  the  other  side  of  the  door, 
longing  for  the  vision  of  all  those  pretty  heads 
bending  over  around  the  lamp.  M.  Joyeuse  never 
mentioned  his  daughters.  As  jealous  of  their 
charms  as  a  dragon  standing  guard  over  lovely 
princesses  in  a  tower,  aroused  to  vigilance  by  the 
fanciful  imaginings  of  his  doting  affection,  he 
replied  dryly  enough  to  his  pupil's  questions  con- 
cerning "the  young  ladies,"  so  that  the  young  man 
ceased  to  mention  them  to  him.  He  was  surprised, 
however,  that  he  never  happened  to  see  this 
"Grandmamma"  whose  name  recurred  constantly 
in  M.  Joyeuse's  conversation  upon  every  subject, 
in  the  most  trivial  details  of  his  existence,  hovering 

VOL.  I.  —  13 


194  '^^^^  Nabob. 

over  the  house  like  the  symbol  of  its  perfect  order- 
liness and  tranquillity. 

Such  extreme  reserve,  on  the  part  of  a  venerable 
lady,  who  in  all  probability  had  passed  the  age  at 
which  the  adventurous  spirit  of  a  young  man  is  to 
be  feared,  seemed  to  him  exaggerated.  But  the 
lessons  were  very  practical,  given  in  very  clear 
language,  and  the  professor  had  an  excellent 
method  of  demonstration,  marred  by  a  single  fault, 
a  habit  of  relapsing  into  fits  of  silence,  broken  by 
starts  and  interjections  that  went  off  like  bombs. 
Outside  of  that  he  was  the  best  of  masters,  intelli- 
gent, patient  and  faithful,  Paul  learned  to  find  his 
way  through  the  complicated  labyrinth  of  books 
of  account  and  resigned  himself  to  the  necessity  of 
asking  nothing  further. 

One  evening,  about  nine  o'clock,  as  the  young 
man  rose  to  go,  M.  Joyeuse  asked  him  if  he  would 
do  him  the  honor  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  e7i  famille,  a 
custom  of  the  time  of  Madame  Joyeuse,  born  Saint- 
Amand,  who  used  to  receive  her  friends  on  Thurs- 
days. Since  her  death,  and  the  change  in  their 
financial  position,  their  friends  had  scattered ;  but 
they  had  retained  that  little  "  weekly  extra."  Paul 
having  accepted,  the  good  man  opened  the  door 
and  called : 

"  Grandmamma." 

A  light  step  in  the  hall  and  a  face  of  twenty 
years,  surrounded  by  a  nimbus  of  abundant,  fluffy 
brown  hair,  abruptly  made  its  appearance.  De  G6ry 
looked  at  M.  Joyeuse  with  an  air  of  stupefaction : 

"  Grandmamma?  " 


tiismiiftgiSfVsifmgiasanii!^^ 


— ■  ni<wiiini<Minwii 

—  '    "W^luliHil>%i"i 


-•*SglgijBTw«wwi«'~ 


Ccpviaht  ifiaS.  hy  UitU-  Brm' 


'lU^z/.-  8;  Cf  Tari<^. 


Grandmamjna.  195 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  name  we  gave  her  when  she  was  a 
little  girl.  With  her  frilled  cap,  and  her  authorita- 
tive older-sister  expression,  she  had  a  funny  Httle 
face,  so  wise-looking.  We  thought  that  she  looked 
like  her  grandmother.  The  name  has  clung  to 
her." 

From  the  worthy  man's  tone,  it  was  evident  that 
to  him  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world, 
that  grandmotherly  title  bestowed  upon  such  attrac- 
tive youth.  Every  one  in  the  household  thought  as 
he  did,  and  the  other  Jcyeuse  girls,  who  ran  to 
their  father  and  grouped  themselves  about  him 
somewhat  as  in  the  show-case  on  the  ground-floor, 
and  the  old  servant,  who  brought  and  placed  upon 
the  table  in  the  salon,  whither  they  had  adjourned, 
a  magnificent  tea-service,  a  relic  of  the  former 
splendor  of  the  establishment,  all  called  the  girl 
"  Grandmamma,"  nor  did  she  once  seem  to  be 
annoyed  by  it,  for  the  influence  of  that  blessed 
name  imparted  to  the  affection  of  them  all  a  touch 
of  deference  that  flattered  her  and  gave  to  her  im- 
aginary authority  a  singular  attractiveness,  as  of  a 
protecting  hand. 

It  may  have  been  because  of  that  title,  which  he 
had  learned  to  cherish  in  his  infancy,  but  de  Gery 
found  an  indescribable  fascination  in  the  girl.  It 
did  not  resemble  the  sudden  blow  he  had  received 
from  another,  full  in  the  heart,  the  perturbation 
mingled  with  a  longing  to  fly,  to  escape  an  obses- 
sion, and  the  persistent  melancholy  peculiar  to  the 
day  after  a  fete,  extinguished  candles,  refrains  that 
have  died  away,  perfumes  vanished  in  the  darkness. 


196      *  The  Nabob. 

No,  in  the  presence  of  that  young  girl,  as  she  stood 
looking  over  the  family  table,  making  sure  that 
nothing  was  lacking,  letting  her  loving,  sparkling 
eyes  rest  upon  her  children,  her  little  children,  he 
was  assailed  by  a  temptation  to  know  her,  to  be  to 
her  as  an  old  friend,  to  confide  to  her  things  that 
he  confessed  to  none  but  himself;  and  when  she 
offered  him  his  cup,  with  no  worldly  airs,  no  society 
affectations,  he  would  have  liked  to  say  like  the 
others  a  "Thanks,  Grandmamma,"  in  which  he 
might  put  his  whole  heart. 

Suddenly  a  cheery,  vigorous  knock  made  every- 
body jump. 

"Ah!  there's  Monsieur  Andre.  Quick,  Elise, 
a  cup.  Yaia,  the  little  cakes."  Meanwhile,  Made- 
moiselle Henriette,  the  third  of  the  Joyeuse  girls,  — 
who  had  inherited  from  her  mother,  born  Saint- 
Amand,  a  certain  worldly  side,  —  in  view  of  the 
crowded  condition  of  the  salons  that  evening, 
rushed  to  light  the  two  candles  on  the  piano. 

"  My  fifth  act  is  done,"  cried  the  newcomer,  as 
he  entered  the  room  ;  then  he  stopped  short.  "  Ah  ! 
excuse  me,"  and  his  face  took  on  a  discomfited 
expression  at  sight  of  the  stranger.  M.  Joyeuse 
introduced  them  to  each  other :  "  Monsieur  Paul 
de  Gery —  Monsieur  Andre  Maranne,"  —  not  with- 
out a  certain  solemnity  of  manner.  He  remem- 
bered his  wife's  receptions  long  ago  ;  and  the  vases 
on  the  mantel,  the  two  great  lamps,  the  work-table, 
the  armchairs  arranged  in  a  circle,  seemed  to  share 
the  illusion,  to  shine  brighter  as  if  rejuvenated 
by  that  unusual  throng. 


Grandmamma.  197 

"  So  your  play  is  finished  ?  " 

"  Finished,  Monsieur  Joyeuse,  and  I  mean  to 
read  it  to  you  one  of  these  days." 

"  Oh !  yes,  Monsieur  Andre.  Oh !  yes,"  said 
all  the  girls  in  chorus. 

Their  neighbor  wrote  for  the  stage  and  no  one 
of  them  entertained  a  doubt  of  his  success.  Pho- 
tography held  out  less  promise  of  profit,  you  know. 
Customers  were  very  rare,  the  passers-by  disinclined 
to  patronize  him.  To  keep  his  hand  in  and  get  his 
new  apparatus  into  working  order,  Monsieur  Andre 
was  taking  his  friends  again  every  Sunday,  the 
family  lending  themselves  for  his  experiments  with 
unequalled  good-humor,  for  the  prosperity  of  that 
inchoate,  suburban  industry  was  a  matter  of  pride 
to  them  all,  arousing,  even  in  the  girls,  that  touching 
sentiment  of  fraternity  which  presses  the  humblest 
destinies  together  as  closely  as  sparrows  on  the 
edge  of  a  roof  But  Andre  Maranne,  with  the  in- 
exhaustible resources  of  his  high  forehead,  stored 
with  illusions,  explained  without  bitterness  the 
indifference  of  the  public.  Either  the  weather  was 
unfavorable  or  else  every  one  complained  of  the 
wretched  condition  of  business,  and  he  ended 
always  with  the  same  consoling  refrain:  "Wait 
until  Rcvolte  has  been  acted  !  "  R^volte  was  the 
title  of  his  play. 

"  It's  a  surprising  thing,"  said  the  fourth  of  the 
Joyeuse  girls,  a  child  of  twelve  with  her  hair  in  a 
pigtail,  "it's  a  surprising  thing  that  you  do  so 
little  business  with  such  a  splendid  balcony !  " 

"  And    then    there  's   a   great   deal    of    passing 


198  The  Nabob, 

through  the  quarter,"  added  Elise  confidently. 
Grandmamma  smiHngly  reminded  her  that  there 
was  even  more  on  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 

"  Ah  !  if  it  were  Boulevard  des  Italiens  —  "  said 
M.  Joyeuse  dreamily,  and  away  he  went  on  his 
chimera,  which  was  suddenly  brought  to  a  stand- 
still by  a  gesture  and  these  words,  uttered  in  a 
piteous  tone  :  "  closed  because  of  failure."  In  an 
instant  the  terrible  Imagmairc  had  installed  his 
friend  in  a  splendid  apartment  on  the  boulevard, 
where  he  earned  an  enormous  amount  of  money, 
increasing  his  expenses  at  the  same  time  so  dispro- 
portionately, that  a  loud  "  pcmf  swallowed  up 
photographer  and  photography  in  a  few  months. 
They  laughed  heartily  when  he  gave  that  explana- 
tion ;  but  they  all  agreed  that  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand, 
although  less  showy,  was  much  more  reliable  than 
Boulevard  des  Italiens.  Moreover,  it  was  very 
near  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  if  the  fashionable 
world  should  once  begin  to  pass  that  way —  That 
fashionable  society  which  her  mother  so  affected 
was  Mademoiselle  Henriette's  fixed  idea;  and  she 
was  amazed  that  the  thought  of  receiving  high-life 
in  his  little  fifth-floor  studio,  about  as  large  as  a 
diving-bell,  should  make  their  neighbor  laugh. 
Why,  only  a  week  or  two  before,  a  carriage  came 
there  with  servants  in  livery.  Sometimes,  too,  he 
had  had  a  "  very  swell  "  visitor. 

"  Oh  !  a  real  great  lady,"  Grandmamma  chimed 
in.  "  We  were  at  the  window  waiting  for  father. 
We  saw  her  leave  the  carriage  and  look  at  the 
frame;  we  thought  surely  she  came  to  see  you." 


Grandtnamnia.  1 99 

"  She  did  come  to  see  me,"  said  Andre,  a  little 
embarrassed. 

"  For  a  moment  we  were  afraid  she  would  go 
on  as  so  many  others  do,  on  account  of  your  five 
flights.  So  we  all  four  did  our  best  to  stop  her, 
to  magnetize  her  with  our  four  pairs  of  wide-open 
eyes.  We  pulled  her  very  gently  by  the  feathers 
in  her  hat  and  the  lace  on  her  cape.  '  Come  up- 
stairs, pray,  madame,  pray  come  upstairs,'  and 
finally  she  came.  There  is  so  much  magnetism 
in  eyes  that  want  a  thing  very  much  !  " 

Surely  she  had  magnetism  enough,  the  dear 
creature,  not  only  in  her  eyes,  which  were  of  un- 
certain hue,  veiled  or  laughing  like  the  sky  of  her 
Paris,  but  in  her  voice,  in  the  folds  of  her  dress, 
in  everything,  even  to  the  long  curl  that  shaded 
her  straight,  graceful  statue-like  neck  and  attracted 
you  by  its  tapering  shaded  point,  deftly  curled 
over  a  supple  finger. 

The  tea  being  duly  served,  while  the  gentle- 
men continued  their  talking  and  drinking — Pere 
Joyeuse  was  always  very  slow  in  everything  that 
he  did,  because  of  his  abrupt  excursions  into  the 
moon  —  the  girls  resumed  their  work,  the  table 
was  covered  with  wicker  baskets,  embroidery, 
pretty  wools  whose  brilliant  coloring  brightened 
the  faded  flowers  in  the  old  carpet,  and  the  group 
of  the  other  evening  was  formed  anew  in  the  lumi- 
nous circle  of  the  lamp  shade,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  Paul  de  Gery.  It  was  the  first  evening 
of  that  sort  he  had  passed  in  Paris ;  it  reminded 
him  of  other  far-away  evenings,   cradled    by  the 


200  The  Nabob, 

same  innocent  mirth,  the  pleasant  sound  of  scissors 
laid  upon  the  table,  of  the  needle  piercing  the 
cotton,  or  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  of  a  book  as 
they  are  turned,  and  dear  faces,  vanished  forever, 
clustered  in  the  same  way  around  the  family  lamp, 
alas  !  so  suddenly  extinguished. 

Once  admitted  into  that  charming  domestic 
circle,  he  was  not  excluded  from  it  again,  but 
took  his  lessons  among  the  girls,  and  made  bold 
to  talk  with  them  when  the  good  man  closed  his 
ledger.  There  everything  tended  to  give  him 
grateful  repose  from  the  seething  life  in  which 
the  Nabob's  luxurious  worldliness  involved  him ; 
he  bathed  in  that  atmosphere  of  honesty  and  sim- 
plicity, and  strove  to  cure  there  the  wounds  with 
which  a  hand  more  indifferent  than  cruel  was 
mercilessly  riddling  his  heart. 

"  Women  have  hated  me,  other  women  have 
loved  me.  She  who  did  me  the  most  harm  never 
had  either  love  or  hate  for  me."  Paul  had  fallen 
in  with  the  woman  of  whom  Heinrich  Heine 
speaks.  Felicia  was  very  hospitable  and  cordial 
to  him.  There  was  no  one  whom  she  welcomed 
more  graciously.  She  reserved  for  him  a  special 
smile,  in  which  there  was  the  pleased  expression 
of  an  artist's  eye  resting  upon  a  type  which  at- 
tracts it,  and  the  satisfaction  of  a  blas^  mind  which 
is  amused  by  anything  new,  however  simple  it 
may  seem  to  be.  She  liked  that  reserve,  most 
alluring  in  a  Southerner,  the  straightforwardness 
of  that  judgment,   entirely  free   from   artistic   or 


Grandmamma.  201 

worldly  formulas  and  enlivened  by  a  touch  of  local 
accent.  It  was  a  change  for  her  from  the  zigzag 
movement  of  the  thumb,  drawing  flattery  in  out- 
line with  the  gestures  of  a  studio  fag,  from  the 
congratulations  of  comrades  on  the  way  in  which 
she  silenced  some  poor  fellow,  and  from  the  af- 
fected admiration,  the  "  chawming  —  veay  pretty," 
with  which  the  young  dandies  honored  her  as 
they  sucked  the  handles  of  their  canes.  He,  at 
all  events,  said  nothing  of  that  sort  to  her.  She 
had  nicknamed  him  Minerva,  because  of  his  appar- 
ent tranquillity  and  the  regularity  of  his  profile; 
and  as  soon  as  he  appeared,  she  would  say:  "  Ah ! 
there 's  Minerva.  Hail,  lovely  Minerva.  Take 
off  your  helmet  and  let  us  have  a  talk." 

But  that  familiar,  almost  fraternal,  tone  con- 
vinced the  young  man  of  the  hopelessness  of  his 
love.  He  realized  that  he  could  not  hope  to  make 
any  further  progress  in  that  feminine  good-fellow- 
ship in  which  affection  was  lacking,  and  that  he 
should  lose  something  every  day  of  his  charm  as 
an  unfamiliar  type  in  the  eyes  of  that  creature 
who  was  born  bored,  and  who  seemed  to  have 
lived  her  life  already  and  to  find  the  insipidity  of 
repetition  in  everything  that  she  heard  or  saw. 
Felicia  was  suffering  from  ennui.  Only  her  art 
had  the  power  to  divert  her,  to  take  her  out  of 
herself,  to  transport  her  to  a  fairyland  of  dazzling 
beauty  from  which  she  returned  all  bruised  and 
sore,  always  surprised  at  the  awakening,  which 
resembled  a  fall.  She  compared  herself  to  the 
jelly-fish,  whose  transparent  brilliancy  in  the  cool- 


202  The  Nabob. 

ness  and  constant  movement  of  the  waves,  vanishes 
on  the  shore  in  little  gelatinous  pools.  During 
those  intervals  of  idleness,  when  the  absence  of 
thought  leaves  the  hand  inert  upon  the  modelling 
tool,  Felicia,  deprived  of  the  sole  moral  nerve 
of  her  intellect,  became  savage,  unapproachable, 
sullen  beyond  endurance,  —  the  revenge  of  paltry- 
human  qualities  upon  great  tired  brains.  After 
she  had  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  all  those 
whom  she  loved,  had  striven  to  evoke  painful 
memories  or  paralyzing  anxieties,  and  had  reached 
the  brutal,  murderous  climax  of  her  fatigue,  —  as 
it  was  always  necessary,  where  she  was  concerned, 
that  something  ridiculous  should  be  mingled  even 
with  the  saddest  things,  she  would  blow  away  the 
remains  of  her  ennui  with  a  cry  like  that  of  a 
dazed  wild  beast,  a  sort  of  yawning  roar  which 
she  called  "  the  cry  of  the  jackal  in  the  desert," 
and  which  would  drive  the  blood  from  the  excel- 
lent Crenmitz's  cheeks,  taking  her  by  surprise  in 
her  torpid  placidity. 

Poor  Felicia !  Her  life  was  in  very  truth  a 
ghastly  desert  when  her  art  did  not  enliven  it 
with  its  visions,  a  dismal,  unrelieved  desert,  where 
everything  was  crushed  and  flattened  beneath  the 
same  monotonous  immensity,  the  ingenuous  love 
of  a  boy  of  twenty  and  the  caprice  of  an  amorous 
duke,  where  everything  was  covered  with  dry  sand 
blown  about  by  the  scorching  winds  of  destiny. 
Paul  was  conscious  of  that  void,  he  tried  to 
escape  from  it;  but  something  detained  him, 
like    a  weight  which    unwinds    a  chain,  and,  not- 


Grandmamma.  203 

withstanding  the  evil  things  he  heard,  notwith- 
standing the  strange  creature's  pecuHarities,  he 
hovered  about  her  with  a  dehcious  sense  of 
enjoyment,  under  pain  of  carrying  naught  away 
from  that  long  amorous  contemplation  save  the 
despair  of  a  believer  reduced  to  the  adoration 
of  images. 

The  place  of  refuge  was  in  yonder  out-of-the- 
way  quarter,  where  the  wind  blew  so  hard  without 
preventing  the  flame  from  burning  white  and 
straight, — it  was  in  the  domestic  circle  presided 
over  by  Grandmamma.  Oh !  she  did  not  suffer 
from  ennui,  she  never  uttered  "  the  cry  of  the 
jackal  in  the  desert."  Her  life  was  too  well  filled : 
the  father  to  comfort  and  encourage,  the  children 
to  teach,  all  the  material  cares  of  a  household  in 
which  the  mother  was  lacking,  the  engrossing 
thoughts  which  wake  with  the  dawn  and  which 
the  night  puts  to  sleep,  unless  it  renews  them 
in  dreams  —  one  of  those  instances  of  indefatig- 
able but  apparently  effortless  devotion,  very  con- 
venient for  poor  human  selfishness,  because  it 
dispenses  with  all  gratitude  and  hardly  makes 
itself  felt,  its  touch  is  so  light.  She  was  not  one 
of  the  courageous  girls  who  work  to  support  their 
parents,  give  lessons  from  morning  to  night  and 
forget  the  annoyances  of  the  household  in  the 
excitement  of  an  engrossing  occupation.  No, 
she  had  formed  a  different  conception  of  her 
duty,  she  was  a  sedentary  bee  confining  her  labors 
to  the  hive,  with  no  buzzing  around  outside  in  the 
fresh  air  and  among  the  flowers.     A  thousand  and 


204  The  Nabob. 

one  functions  to  perform :  tailor,  milliner,  mender, 
keeper  of  accounts  as  well, — for  M.  Joyeuse, 
being  incapable  of  any  sort  of  responsibility,  left 
the  disposition  of  the  family  funds  absolutely  in 
her  hands,  —  teacher  and  music  mistress. 

As  is  often  the  case  in  families  which  were  origi- 
nally in  comfortable  circumstances.  Aline,  being 
the  eldest,  had  been  educated  in  one  of  the  best 
boarding-schools  in  Paris.  Elise  had  remained 
there  two  years  with  her;  but  the  two  younger 
ones,  having  come  too  late,  had  been  sent  to 
little  day-schools  in  the  quarter  and  had  all 
their  studies  to  complete ;  and  it  was  no  easy 
matter,  for  the  youngest  laughed  on  every  pretext, 
an  exuberant,  healthy,  youthful  laugh,  like  the 
warbling  of  a  lark  drunken  on  green  wheat,  and 
flew  away  out  of  sight  of  desk  and  symbols,  while 
Mademoiselle  Henriette,  always  haunted  by  her 
ideas  of  grandeur,  her  love  of  "  the  substantial," 
was  none  too  eager  for  study.  That  young  per- 
son of  fifteen,  to  whom  her  father  had  bequeathed 
something  of  his  imaginative  faculty,  was  already 
arranging  her  life  in  anticipation,  and  declared  for- 
mally that  she  should  marry  some  one  of  birth  and 
should  never  have  more  than  three  children :  "  A 
boy  for  the  name,  and  two  little  girls  —  so  that  I 
can  dress  them  alike." 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  Grandmamma  would  say, 
"  you  shall  dress  them  alike.  Meanwhile,  let  us 
see  about  our  participles." 

But  the  most  troublesome  of  all  was  Elise  with 
her   thrice    unsuccessful   examination    in    history, 


Grandmamma.  205 

always  rejected  and  preparing  herself  anew,  sub- 
ject to  attacks  of  profound  terror  and  self-distrust 
which  led  her  to  carry  that  unfortunate  handbook 
of  French  history  with  her  wherever  she  went,  and 
to  open  it  at  every  instant,  in  the  omnibus,  in  the 
street,  even  at  the  breakfast  table ;  but,  being 
already  a  young  woman  and  very  pretty,  she  no 
longer  had  the  mechanical  memory  of  childhood 
in  which  dates  and  events  are  incrusted  forever. 
Amid  her  other  preoccupations  the  lesson  would 
fly  away  in  a  moment,  despite  the  pupil's  apparent 
application,  her  long  lashes  concealing  her  eyes, 
her  curls  sweeping  the  page,  and  her  rosy  mouth 
twitching  slightly  at  the  corners  as  she  repeated 
again  and  again:  "Louis  le  Hutin,  13 14-13 16. 
Philippe  V,  le  Long,  13 16-1322  —  1322.  —  Oh! 
Grandmamma,  I  am  lost.  I  shall  never  learn 
them."  Thereupon  Grandmamma  would  take  a 
hand,  help  her  to  fix  her  attention,  to  store  away 
some  of  those  barbarous  dates  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  as  sharp-pointed  as  the  helmets  of  the 
warriors  of  those  days.  And  in  the  intervals  of 
those  manifold  tasks,  of  that  general  and  constant 
superintendence,  she  found  time  to  make  pretty 
things,  to  take  from  her  work-basket  some  piece 
of  knitting  or  embroidery,  which  clung  to  her  as 
steadfastly  as  young  Elise  to  her  history  of  France. 
Even  when  she  was  talking,  her  fingers  were  never 
unemployed  for  one  moment. 

"Do  you  never  rest?"  de  Gery  asked  her  while  she 
counted  in  a  whisper  the  stitches  of  her  embroidery, 
"  three,  four,  five,"  in  order  to  vary  the  shades. 


2o6  The  Nabob, 

"  Why,  this  work  is  rest,"  she  replied.  "  You 
men  have  no  idea  how  useful  needlework  is  to 
a  woman's  mind.  It  regularizes  the  thought, 
fixes  with  a  stitch  the  passing  moment  and  what 
it  carries  with  it.  And  think  of  the  sorrows  that 
are  soothed,  the  anxieties  forgotten  by  the  help  of 
this  purely  physical  attention,  this  constant  repeti- 
tion of  the  same  movement,  in  which  you  find  — 
and  find  very  quickly,  whether  you  will  or  no  — 
that  your  equilibrium  is  entirely  restored.  It  does 
not  prevent  me  from  hearing  all  that  is  said  in  my 
neighborhood,  from  listening  to  you  even  more  at- 
tentively than  I  should  if  I  were  idle  —  three,  four, 
five." 

Oh  !  yes,  she  listened.  That  was  plain  from  the 
animation  of  her  face,  from  the  way  in  which  she 
would  suddenly  straighten  herself  up,  with  her 
needle  in  the  air  and  the  thread  stretched  over 
her  raised  little  finger.  Then  she  would  suddenly 
resume  her  work,  sometimes  interjecting  a  shrewd, 
thoughtful  word,  which  as  a  general  rule  agreed  with 
what  friend  Paul  thought.  A  similarity  in  their  na- 
tures and  in  their  responsibilities  and  duties  brought 
those  two  young  people  together,  made  them  mutu- 
ally interested  each  in  those  things  that  the  other 
had  most  at  heart.  She  knew  the  names  of  his  two 
brothers,  Pierre  and  Louis,  and  his  plans  for  their 
future  when  they  should  leave  school.  Pierre 
wanted  to  be  a  sailor.  "  Oh !  no,  not  a  sailor," 
said  Grandmamma,  "  it  would  be  much  better  for 
him  to  come  to  Paris  with  you."  And  when  he 
admitted  that   he   was   afraid   of  Paris  for  them, 


Grandmamma.  207 

she  laughed  at  his  fears,  called  him  a  provincial, 
for  she  was  full  of  affection  for  the  city  where 
she  was  born,  where  she  had  grown  chastely  to 
womanhood,  and  which  gave  her  in  return  the 
vivacity,  the  natural  refinement,  the  sprightly 
good-humor  which  make  one  think  that  Paris, 
with  its  rains,  its  fogs,  its  sky  which  is  no  sky,  is 
the  true  fatherland  of  woman,  whose  nerves  it 
spares  and  whose  patient  and  intelligent  qualities 
it  develops. 

Each  day  Paul  de  Gery  appreciated  Mademoi- 
selle Aline  more  thoroughly  —  he  was  the  only 
one  in  the  house  who  called  her  by  that  name  — 
and,  strangely  enough,  it  was  Felicia  who  finally 
cemented  their  intimacy.  What  connection  could 
there  be  between  that  artist's  daughter,  fairly 
launched  in  the  most  exalted  spheres,  and  that 
bourgeois  maiden  lost  to  sight  in  the  depths  of  a 
suburb  ?  Connections  of  childhood  and  friendship, 
common  memories,  the  great  courtyard  of  the 
Belin  establishment,  where  they  had  played  to- 
gether for  three  years.  Such  meetings  are  very 
common  in  Paris.  A  name  mentioned  at  random 
in  conversation  suddenly  calls  forth  the  amazed 
question : 

"  What !  do  you  know  her?  " 

"  Do  I  know  Felicia?  Why  we  sat  at  adjoining 
desks  in  the  first  class.  We  had  the  same  garden. 
Such  a  dear,  lovely,  clever  girl !  " 

And,  noticing  how  pleased  he  was  to  listen  to 
her,  Aline  recalled  the  days,  still  so  near,  which 
already  formed  part  of  the  past  to  her,  fascinating 


2o8  The  Nabob. 

and  melancholy  like  all  pasts.  She  was  quite 
alone  in  life,  was  little  Felicia.  On  Thursday, 
when  they  called  out  the  names  in  the  parlor, 
there  was  never  any  one  for  her ;  except  now  and 
then  an  old  woman,  a  nice  old  woman,  if  she  was  a 
little  ridiculous,  a  former  ballet-dancer  it  was  said, 
whom  Felicia  called  the  Fairy.  She  had  pet 
names  like  that  for  everybody  of  whom  she  was 
fond,  and  she  transformed  them  all  in  her  imagina- 
tion. They  used  to  see  each  other  during  the 
vacations.  Madame  Joyeuse,  although  she  refused 
to  send  Aline  to  M.  Ruys's  studio,  invited  Felicia 
for  whole  days,  —  very  short  days,  made  up  of  work 
and  music,  of  joint  dreams  and  unrestrained  youth- 
ful chatter.  "  Oh !  when  she  talked  to  me  about 
her  art,  with  the  ardor  which  she  put  into  every- 
thing, how  delighted  I  was  to  hear  her !  How 
many  things  she  enabled  me  to  understand  of 
which  I  never  should  have  had  the  slightest  idea ! 
Even  now,  when  we  go  to  the  Louvre  with  papa, 
or  to  the  Exhibition  of  the  first  of  May,  the  pecul- 
iar emotion  that  one  feels  at  the  sight  of  a  beauti- 
ful bit  of  sculpture  or  a  fine  painting,  makes  me 
think  instantly  of  Felicia.  In  my  young  days  she 
represented  art,  and  it  went  well  with  her  beauty, 
her  somewhat  reckless  but  so  kindly  nature,  in 
which  I  was  conscious  of  something  superior  to 
myself,  which  carried  me  away  to  a  great  height 
without  frightening  me.  Suddenly  we  ceased  to 
see  each  other.  I  wrote  to  her  —  no  reply.  Then 
fame  came  to  her,  great  sorrow  and  engrossing  du- 
ties to  me.     And  of  all  that  friendship,  and  very 


Graizdmamma.  209 

deep-rooted  it  must  have  been,  for  I  cannot  speak 
of  it  without  —  three,  four,  five  —  nothing  is  left 
but  old  memories  to  be  poked  over  like  dead 
ashes." 

Leaning  over  her  work,  the  brave  girl  hastily- 
counted  her  stitches,  concealing  her  grief  in  the 
fanciful  designs  of  her  embroidery,  while  de  Gery, 
deeply  moved  to  hear  the  testimony  of  those  pure 
lips  in  contradiction  of  the  calumnies  of  a  few  dis- 
appointed dandies  or  jealous  rivals,  felt  relieved  of 
a  weight  and  once  more  proud  of  his  love.  The 
sensation  was  so  sweet  to  him  that  he  came  very 
often  to  seek  to  renew  it,  not  only  on  lesson  even- 
ings, but  on  other  evenings  as  well,  and  almost  for- 
got to  go  and  see  Felicia  for  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing Aline  speak  of  her. 

One  evening,  when  he  left  the  Joyeuse  apart- 
ment, he  found  waiting  for  him  on  the  landing  M. 
Andr6,  the  neighbor,  who  took  his  arm  feverishly. 

"  Monsieur  de  Gery,"  he  said,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  his  eyes  flashing  fire  behind  their  spectacles, 
the  only  part  of  his  face  one  could  see  at  night,  "  I 
have  an  explanation  to  demand  at  your  hands. 
Will  you  come  up  to  my  room  a  moment?" 

Between  that  young  man  and  himself  there  had 
been  only  the  usual  relations  of  two  frequent  visit- 
ors at  the  same  house,  who  are  attached  by  no 
bond,  who  seem  indeed  to  be  separated  by  a  cer- 
tain antipathy  between  their  natures  and  their 
modes  of  life.  What  could  there  be  for  them  to 
explain?     Sorely  puzzled,  he  followed  Andre. 

The  sight  of  the  little  studio,  cold  and  cheerless 

VOL.  I.  — 14 


2IO  The  Nabob. 

under  its  glass  ceiling,  the  empty  fireplace,  the 
wind  blowing  as  it  blows  outside,  and  making  the 
candle  flicker,  the  only  light  that  shone  upon  that 
vigil  of  a  penniless  recluse,  reflected  upon  scat- 
tered sheets  all  covered  with  writing,  —  in  a  word, 
that  atmosphere  of  inhabited  cells  wherein  the 
very  soul  of  the  inhabitants  exhales,  —  enabled  de 
Gery  to  comprehend  at  once  the  impassioned 
Andre  Maranne,  his  long  hair  thrown  back  and 
flying  in  the  wind,  his  somewhat  eccentric  appear- 
ance, very  excusable  when  one  pays  for  it  with  a 
life  of  suffering  and  privations  ;  and  his  sympathy 
instantly  went  out  to  the  courageous  youth,  whose 
militant  pride  he  fully  divined  at  a  single  glance. 
But  the  other  was  too  excited  to  notice  this  transi- 
tion. As  soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  he  said, 
with  the  accent  of  a  stage  hero  addressing  the 
perjured  seducer : 

'*  Monsieur  de  Gery,  I  am  not  a  Cassandra  yet." 
And,  as  he  observed  his  interlocutor's  unbounded 
amazement,  he  added :  "  Yes,  yes,  we  understand 
each  other.  I  see  perfectly  clearly  what  attracts 
you  to  M.  Joyeuse's,  nor  has  the  warm  welcome 
you  receive  there  escaped  me.  You  are  rich, 
you  are  of  noble  birth,  no  one  can  hesitate  be- 
tween you  and  the  poor  poet  who  carries  on  an 
absurd  trade  in  order  to  gain  time  to  attain  suc- 
cess, which  will  never  come  perhaps.  But  I  won't 
allow  my  happiness  to  be  stolen  from  me.  We 
will  fight,  monsieur,  we  will  fight,"  he  repeated,  ex- 
cited by  his  rival's  unruffled  tranquillity.  "  I  have 
loved  Mademoiselle  Joyeuse  a  long  while.     That 


Grandmamma.  2 1 1 

love  is  the  aim,  the  joy,  and  the  strength  of  a  very 
hard  Hfe,  painful  in  many  respects.  I  have  noth- 
ing but  that  in  the  world,  and  I  should  prefer  to 
die  rather  than  to  renounce  it." 

What  a  strange  combination  is  the  human  heart ! 
Paul  was  not  in  love  with  the  charming  Aline. 
His  whole  heart  belonged  to  another.  He  thought 
of  her  simply  as  a  friend,  the  most  adorable  of 
friends.  And  yet  the  idea  that  Maranne  was 
thinking  of  her,  that  she  undoubtedly  responded 
to  his  lover-like  attentions,  caused  him  a  thrill  of 
jealous  anger,  and  his  tone  was  very  sharp  when 
he  asked  if  Mademoiselle  Joyeuse  were  aware  of 
this  feeling  of  Andre's  and  had  in  any  way  author- 
ized him  to  proclaim  his  rights. 

"  Yes,  monsieur.  Mademoiselle  Elise  knows  that 
I  love  her,  and  before  your  frequent  visits  —  " 

"  lilise —  is  it  EHse  you  're  talking  about?  " 

"  Why,  who  should  it  be,  pray?  The  other  two 
are  too  young." 

He  entered  thoroughly  into  the  traditions  of  the 
family.  In  his  eyes  Grandmamma's  twenty  years, 
her  triumphant  charm,  were  concealed  by  a  respect- 
ful sobriquet  and  by  her  providential  qualities. 

A  very  brief  explanation  having  allayed  Andre 
Maranne's  excitement,  he  offered  his  apologies  to 
de  Gery,  invited  him  to  take  a  seat  in  the  carved 
wooden  armchair  in  which  his  customers  posed, 
and  their  conversation  speedily  assumed  an  inti- 
mate and  confidential  character,  attributable  to  the 
earnest  avowal  with  which  it  began.  Paul  con- 
fessed that  he  too  was  in  love,  and  that  his  only 


212  The  Nabob. 

purpose  in  coming  so  often  to  M.  Joyeuse's  was 
to  talk  about  his  beloved  with  Grandmamma,  who 
had  known  her  long  before. 

"  It 's  the  same  with  me,"  said  Andre.  "  Grand- 
mamma knows  all  my  secrets ;  but  we  have  not 
dared  say  anything  to  her  father  yet.  My  position 
is  too  uncertain.  Ah !  when  Revolte  has  been 
brought  out !  " 

Thereupon  they  talked  about  Rivolte  !  the  famous 
drama  on  which  he  had  been  at  work  day  and 
night  for  six  months,  which  had  kept  him  warm 
all  through  the  winter,  a  very  hard  winter,  whose 
rigor  was  tempered,  however,  by  the  magic  power 
of  composition  in  the  little  garret,  which  it  com- 
pletely transformed.  There,  in  that  confined  space, 
all  the  heroes  of  his  play  had  appeared  to  the 
poet,  like  familiar  sprites  falling  through  the  roof 
or  riding  on  the  moonbeams,  and  with  them  the 
high-warp  tapestries,  the  gleaming  chandeliers,  the 
vast  parks  with  gateways  flooded  with  light,  all 
the  usual  magnificence  of  stage-setting,  as  well  as 
the  glorious  uproar  of  the  first  performance,  the 
applause  being  represented  by  the  rain  beating  on 
the  windows  and  the  signs  flapping  against  the 
door,  while  the  wind,  whistling  through  the  melan- 
choly lumber-yard  below  with  a  vague  murmur  of 
voices  brought  from  afar  and  carried  far,  resembled 
the  murmur  from  the  boxes  opening  into  the 
lobby,  allowing  his  triumph  to  circulate  amid  the 
chattering  and  confusion  of  the  audience.  It  was 
not  simply  the  renown  and  the  money  that  that 
blessed  play  were  to  bring  to  him,  but  something 


Grandmamma.  213 

far  more  precious.  How  carefully,  therefore,  did 
he  turn  the  pages  of  the  manuscript  contained  in 
five  great  books  in  blue  covers,  such  books  as  the 
Levantine  spread  out  upon  the  divan  on  which 
she  took  her  siestas,  and  marked  with  her  mana- 
gerial pencil. 

Paul  having  drawn  near  the  table  in  his  turn,  in 
order  to  examine  the  masterpiece,  his  eyes  were 
attracted  by  a  portrait  of  a  woman  in  a  handsome 
frame,  which  seemed,  being  so  near  the  artist's 
work,  to  have  been  stationed  there  to  stand  guard 
over  it.  Elise,  of  course?  Oh!  no,  Andre  had  no 
right  as  yet  to  take  his  young  friend's  photograph 
away  from  its  protecting  environment.  It  was  a 
woman  of  about  forty,  fair,  with  a  sweet  expres- 
sion, and  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion.  When 
he  saw  the  face,  de  Gery  could  not  restrain  an 
exclamation. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  said  Andre  Maranne. 

"  Why,  yes  —  Madame  Jenkins,  the  Irish  doctor's 
wife.     I  took  supper  with  them  last  winter." 

"  She  is  my  mother."  And  the  young  man 
added  in  a  lower  tone  : 

"  Madame  Maranne  married  Dr.  Jenkins  for  her 
second  husband.  You  are  surprised,  are  you  not, 
to  find  me  in  such  destitution  when  my  parents 
are  living  in  luxury?  But,  as  you  know,  chance 
sometimes  brings  very  antipathetic  natures  together 
in  the  same  family.  My  father-in-law  and  I  could 
not  agree.  He  wanted  to  make  a  doctor  of  me, 
whereas  I  had  no  taste  for  anything  but  writing. 
At  last,  in  order  to  avoid  the  constant  disputes, 


2  14  ^^^  Nabob, 

which  were  a  source  of  pain  to  my  mother,  I  pre- 
ferred to  leave  the  house  and  dig  my  furrow  all 
alone,  without  assistance  from  any  one.  It  was  a 
hard  task  !  money  was  lacking.  All  the  property 
is  in  the  hands  of  that — of  M.  Jenkins.  It  was 
a  question  of  earning  my  living,  and  you  know 
what  a  difficult  matter  that  is  for'  persons  like  our- 
selves, well  brought  up  as  it  is  termed.  To  think 
that,  with  all  the  knowledge  included  in  what  it  is 
fashionable  to  call  a  thorough  education,  I  could 
find  nothing  but  this  child's  play  which  gave  me 
any  hope  of  being  able  to  earn  my  bread  !  Some 
little  savings  from  my  allowance  as  a  young  man 
sufficed  to  buy  my  first  outfit,  and  I  opened  a 
studio  far  away,  at  the  very  end  of  Paris,  in  order 
not  to  annoy  my  parents.  Between  ourselves,  I 
fancy  that  I  shall  never  make  my  fortune  in 
photography.  The  first  weeks  especially  were  very 
hard.  No  one  came,  or  if  by  any  chance  some 
poor  devil  did  toil  up  the  stairs,  I  missed  him,  I 
spread  him  out  on  my  plate  in  a  faint,  blurred 
mixture  like  a  ghost.  One  day,  very  early  in  my 
experience,  there  came  a  wedding  party,  the  bride 
all  in  white,  the  husband  with  a  waistcoat  —  oh  ! 
such  a  waistcoat !  And  all  the  guests  in  white 
gloves  which  they  insisted  upon  having  included 
in  the  photograph,  because  of  the  rarity  of  the 
sensation.  Really,  I  thought  I  should  go  mad. 
Those  black  faces,  the  great  white  daubs  for  the 
dress,  the  gloves  and  the  orange  flowers,  the  un- 
fortunate bride  in  the  guise  of  a  Zulu  queen,  under 
her  wreath  which  melted  into  her  hair !     And  all 


Grandmamma.  215 

so  overflowing  with  good-nature,  with  encourage- 
ment for  the  artist.  I  tried  them  at  least  twenty- 
times,  kept  them  until  five  o'clock  at  night.  They 
left  me  only  when  it  was  dark,  to  go  and  dine ! 
Fancy  that  wedding-day  passed  in  a  photograph 
gallery !  " 

While  Andre  thus  jocosely  narrated  the  melan- 
choly incidents  of  his  life,  Paul  recalled  Felicia's 
outburst  on  the  subject  of  Bohemians,  and  all  that 
she  said  to  Jenkins  concerning  their  exalted  cour- 
age, their  thirst  for  privations  and  trials.  He 
thought  also  of  Aline's  passionate  fondness  for  her 
dear  Paris,  of  which  he  knew  nothing  but  the 
unhealthy  eccentricities,  whereas  the  great  city 
concealed  so  much  unknown  heroism,  so  many 
noble  illusions  in  its  folds.  The  sensation  he  had 
previously  felt  in  the  circle  of  the  Joyeuses'  great 
lamp,  he  was  even  more  keenly  conscious  of  in  that 
less  warm,  less  peaceful  spot,  whither  art  brought 
its  desperate  or  glorious  uncertainty;  and  it  was 
with  a  melting  heart  that  he  listened  while  Andre 
Maranne  talked  to  him  of  Elise,  of  the  examina- 
tion she  was  so  long  in  passing,  of  the  difficult 
trade  of  photography,  of  all  the  unforeseen  hard- 
ships of  his  life,  which  would  surely  come  to  an 
end  "  when  Revolte  should  have  been  brought  out," 
a  fascinating  smile  playing  about  the  poet's  lips  as 
they  gave  utterance  to  that  hope,  so  often  expressed, 
which  he  made  haste  to  ridicule  himself,  as  if  to 
deprive  others  of  the  right  to  ridicule  it. 


2i6  The  Nabob. 


X. 

MEMOIRS  OF  A   CLERK.  — THE   SERVANTS. 

Really  the  wheel  of  fortune  in  Paris  revolves  in  a 
way  to  make  one's  head  swim ! 

To  have  seen  the  Caisse  Territoriale  as  I  have 
seen  it,  fireless  rooms,  never  swept,  covered  with 
the  dust  of  the  desert,  notices  of  protest  piled  high 
on  the  desks,  a  notice  of  sale  on  execution  at  the 
door  every  week,  and  my  ragout  diffusing  the  odor 
of  a  poor  man's  kitchen  over  it  all ;  and  to  witness 
now  the  rehabilitation  of  our  Society  in  its  newly- 
furnished  salons,  where  it  is  my  duty  to  light  min- 
isterial fires,  in  the  midst  of  a  busy  throng,  with 
whistles,  electric  bells,  piles  of  gold  pieces  so  high 
that  they  topple  over  —  it  borders  on  the  miracu- 
lous. To  convince  myself  that  it  is  all  true,  I  have 
to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass,  to  gaze  at  my  iron- 
gray  coat  trimmed  with  silver,  my  white  cravat, 
my  usher's  chain  such  as  I  used  to  wear  at  the 
Faculty  on  council  days.  And  to  think  that,  to 
effect  this  transformation,  to  bring  back  to  our 
brows  the  gayety  that  is  the  mother  of  concord, 
to  restore  to  our  paper  its  value  ten  times  over 
and  to  our  dear  Governor  the  esteem  and  confi- 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  2 1 7 

dence  of  which  he  was  so  unjustly  deprived,  it 
only  needed  one  man,  that  supernatural  Croesus 
whom  the  hundred  voices  of  fame  designate  by  the 
name  of  the  Nabob. 

Oh !  the  first  time  that  he  came  into  the  offices, 
with  his  fine  presence,  his  face,  a  little  wrinkled 
perhaps  but  so  distinguished,  the  manners  of  an 
habitue  of  courts,  on  familiar  terms  with  all  the 
princes  of  the  Orient,  in  a  word  with  the  indescrib- 
able touch  of  self-confidence  and  grandeur  that 
great  fortune  gives,  I  felt  my  heart  swell  in  my 
waistcoat  with  its  double  row  of  buttons.  They 
may  say  all  they  choose  about  their  equality  and 
fraternity,  there  are  some  men  who  are  so  much 
above  others,  that  you  feel  like  falling  on  your  face 
before  them  and  inventing  new  formulae  of  adora- 
tion to  compel  them  to  pay  some  attention  to  you. 
Let  me  hasten  to  add  that  I  had  no  need  of  any- 
thing of  the  sort  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
Nabob.  When  I  rose  as  he  passed — ^  deeply 
moved  but  dignified :  you  can  always  trust  Passa- 
jon  —  he  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  and  said  in  an 
undertone  to  the  young  man  who  accompanied 
him:  "What  a  fine  head,  like  —  "then  a  w^ord 
that  I  did  not  hear,  a  word  ending  in  ard,  like 
leopard.  But  no,  it  could  not  be  that,  for  I  am  not 
conscious  of  having  a  head  like  a  leopard.  Per- 
haps he  said  like  Jean-Bart,  although  I  do  not  see 
the  connection.  However,  he  said  :  "  What  a  fine 
head,  like  — "  and  his  condescension  made  me 
proud.  By  the  way,  all  the  gentlemen  are  very 
kind,  very  polite  to  me.     It  seems  that  there  has 


2i8  The  Nabob. 

been  a  discussion  in  regard  to  me,  whether  they 
should  keep  me  or  send  me  away  like  our  cashier, 
that  crabbed  creature  who  was  always  talking  about 
sending  everybody  to  the  galleys,  and  whom  they 
requested  to  go  and  make  his  economical  shirt- 
fronts  somewhere  else.  Well  done !  That  will 
teach  him  to  use  vulgar  language  to  people. 

When  it  came  to  me,  the  Governor  was  kind 
enough  to  forget  my  rather  hasty  words  in  consid- 
eration of  my  certificates  of  service  at  the  Ter- 
ritoriale  and  elsewhere ;  and  after  the  council 
meeting  he  said  to  me  with  his  musical  accent: 
"  Passajon,  you  are  to  stay  on  with  us."  You  can 
imagine  whether  I  was  happy,  whether  I  lost 
myself  in  expressions  of  gratitude.  Just  consider  ! 
I  should  have  gone  away  with  my  few  sous,  with 
no  hope  of  ever  earning  any  more,  obliged  to  go 
and  cultivate  my  little  vineyard  at  Montbars,  a  very 
narrow  field  for  a  man  who  has  lived  among  all  the 
financial  aristocracy  of  Paris  and  the  bold  strokes 
of  financiering  that  make  fortunes.  Instead  of 
that,  here  I  am  established  all  anew  in  a  superb 
position,  my  wardrobe  replenished,  and  my  sav- 
ings, which  I  actually  held  in  my  hand  for  a  whole 
day,  intrusted  to  the  fostering  care  of  ihe  Gover- 
nor, who  has  undertaken  to  make  them  yield  a 
handsome  return.  I  rather  think  that  he  is  the 
man  who  knows  how  to  do  it.  And  not  the 
slightest  occasion  for  anxiety.  All  apprehensions 
vanish  before  the  word  that  is  all  the  fashion  at 
this  moment  in  all  administrative  councils,  at  all 
meetings  of  the  shareholders,  on  the   Bourse,  on 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  219 

the  boulevards,  everywhere  :  "  The  Nabob  is  in  the 
thing."  That  is  to  say,  we  are  running  over  with 
cash,  the  worst  combinasiojii  are  in  excellent 
shape. 

That  man  is  so  rich  ! 

Rich  to  such  a  degree  that  one  cannot  believe 
it.  Why,  he  has  just  loaned  fifteen  millions  off- 
hand to  the  Bey  of  Tunis.  Fifteen  millions,  I 
sayi  That  was  rather  a  neat  trick  on  Hemer- 
lingue,  who  tried  to  make  trouble  between  him 
and  that  monarch  and  to  cut  the  grass  from  under 
his  feet  in  those  lovely  Oriental  countries,  where 
it  grows  tall  and  thick  and  golden-colored.  It 
was  an  old  Turk  of  my  acquaintance,  Colonel 
Brahim,  one  of  our  council  at  the  Territoriale,  who 
arranged  the  loan.  Naturally  the  bey,  who  was 
very  short  of  pocket  money,  it  seems,  was  greatly 
touched  by  the  Nabob's  zeal  to  accommodate 
him,  and  he  sent  him  by  Brahim  a  letter  of 
acknowledgment  in  which  he  told  him  that  on  his 
next  trip  to  Vichy  he  would  pass  two  days  with 
him  at  the  magnificent  Chateau  de  Saint-Romans, 
which  the  former  bey,  this  one's  brother,  once 
honored  with  a  visit.  Just  think  what  an  honor ! 
To  receive  a  reigning  prince  !  The  Hemerlingues 
are  in  a  frenzy.  They  had  manoeuvred  so  skil- 
fully, the  son  in  Tunis,  the  father  in  Paris,  to  bring 
the  Nabob  into  disfavor.  To  be  sure,  fifteen  mil- 
lions is  a  large  sum  of  money.  But  do  not  say: 
"  Passajon  is  gulling  us."  The  person  who  told 
me  the  story  had  in  his  hands  the  paper  sent  by 
the  bey  in  a  green  silk  envelope  stamped  with  the 


2  20  The  Nabob. 

royal  seal.  His  only  reason  for  not  reading  it  was 
that  it  was  written  in  Arabic ;  otherwise  he  would 
have  taken  cognizance  of  it  as  he  does  of  all  the 
Nabob's  correspondence.  That  person  is  his  valet 
de  chambre,  M.  Noel,  to  whom  I  had  the  honor  to 
be  presented  last  Friday  at  a  small  party  of  per- 
sons in  service,  which  he  gave  to  some  of  his 
friends.  I  insert  a  description  of  that  festivity  in 
my  memoirs,  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  things 
I  have  seen  during  my  four  years'  residence  in 
Paris. 

I  supposed  at  first,  when  M.  Francis,  Monpa- 
von's  valet  de  chambre,  mentioned  the  affair  to 
me,  that  it  was  to  be  one  of  the  little  clandestine 
junkets  such  as  they  sometimes  have  in  the  attic 
rooms  on  our  boulevard,  with  the  leavings  sent  up 
by  Mademoiselle  Seraphine  and  the  other  cooks  in 
the  house,  where  they  drink  stolen  wine  and  stuff 
themselves,  sitting  on  trunks,  trembling  with  fear, 
by  the  light  of  two  candles  which  they  put  out  at 
the  slightest  noise  in  the  corridors.  Such  under- 
hand performances  are  repugnant  to  my  character. 
But  when  I  received  an  invitation  on  pink  paper, 
written  in  a  very  fine  hand,  as  if  for  a  ball  given  by 
the  people  of  the  house : 

M.  Noel  pri  M. de  se  randre  a  sa  soire  du  25 

couran. 

On  soupra^ 

I  saw,  notwithstanding  the  defective  orthography, 
that  it  was    a  serious,  authoritative  function ;    so 

1  M.  Noel  requests  the  pleasure  of  M. 's  company  on  the 

evening  of  the  25th  instant.     Supper. 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  221 

I  arrayed  myself  in  my  newest  frock  coat  and  my 
finest  linen,  and  betook  myself  to  Place  Vendome, 
to  the  address  indicated  by  the  invitation. 

M.  Noel  had  selected  for  his  party  the  evening 
of  a  first  performance  at  the  Opera,  which  society 
attended  en  masse,  so  that  the  whole  household 
had  the  bit  in  their  teeth  until  midnight,  and  the 
entire  house  at  their  disposal.  Nevertheless,  our 
host  had  preferred  to  receive  us  in  his  room  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  house,  and  I  strongly  approved 
his  judgment,  being  therein  of  the  opinion  of  the 
good  man  who  said  : 

Fi  du  plaisir 

Que  la  crainte  peut  corrompre !  * 

But  talk  to  me  about  the  attics  on  Place  Vendome  ! 
A  thick  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  bed  out  of  sight 
in  an  alcove,  Algerian  curtains  with  red  stripes,  a 
green  marble  clock,  the  whole  lighted  by  patent 
self-regulating  lamps.  Our  dean,  M.  Chalmette, 
at  Dijon  had  no  better  quarters  than  that.  I 
arrived  about  nine  o'clock  with  Monpavon's  old 
Francis,  and  I  must  confess  that  my  appearance 
created  a  sensation,  preceded  as  I  was  by  the 
fame  of  my  academic  past,  by  my  reputation  for 
refined  manners  and  great  learning.  My  fine 
bearing  did  the  rest,  for  I  must  say  that  I  know 
how  to  carry  myself,  M.  Noel,  very  dark  skinned, 
with  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  dressed  in  a  black 
coat,  came  forward  to  meet  us. 

1  A  fig  for  the  pleasure 
Which  fear  can  destroy  ! 


222  The  Nabob. 

"  Welcome,  Monsieur  Passajon,"  he  said ;  and 
taking  my  cap  with  silver  ornaments,  which,  as  I 
entered  the  room,  I  held  in  my  right  hand  accord- 
ing to  custom,  he  handed  it  to  an  enormous  negro 
in  red  and  gold  livery. 

"  Here,  Lakdar,  take  this  —  and  this,"  he  said, 
by  way  of  jest,  giving  him  a  kick  in  a  certain  por- 
tion of  the  back. 

There  was  much  laughter  at  that  sally,  and  we 
began  to  converse  most  amicably.  An  excellent 
fellow,  that  M.  Noel,  with  his  Southern  accent,  his 
determined  bearing,  the  frankness  and  simplicity 
of  his  manners.  He  reminded  me  of  the  Nabob, 
minus  his  master's  distinguished  mien,  however. 
Indeed,  I  noticed  that  evening  that  such  resem- 
blances are  of  common  occurrence  in  valets  de 
chambre,  who,  as  they  live  on  intimate  terms 
with  their  masters,  by  whom  they  are  always  a 
little  dazzled,  end  by  adopting  their  peculiarities 
and  their  mannerisms.  For  instance,  M.  Francis 
has  a  certain  habit  of  drawing  himself  up  and  dis- 
playing his  linen  shirtfront,  a  mania  for  raising 
his  arms  to  pull  down  his  cuffs,  which  is  Mon- 
pavon  to  the  life.  But  there  is  one  who  does  not 
resemble  his  master  in  the  least,  that  is  Joe, 
Dr.  Jenkins'  coachman.  I  call  him  Joe,  but  at 
the  party  everybody  called  him  Jenkins;  for  in 
that  circle  the  stable  folk  among  themselves  call 
one  another  by  their  employers'  names,  plain 
Bois-l'H^ry,  Monpavon  and  Jenkins.  Is  it  to 
debase  the  superiors,  to  exalt  the  servant  class? 
Every  country  has  its  customs ;   nobody  but  a  fool 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants,  223 

ought  to  be  astonished  by  them.  To  return  to 
Joe  Jenkins  —  how  can  the  doctor,  who  is  such  an 
amiable  man,  so  perfect  in  every  respect,  keep  in 
his  service  that  gin  and  /<7r/^r- soaked  brute,  who 
sits  silent  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  then,  the  instant 
that  the  liquor  goes  to  his  head,  begins  to  roar 
and  wants  to  box  everybody  —  witness  the  scan- 
dalous scene  that  had  just  taken  place  when  we 
arrived. 

The  marquis's  little  tiger,  Tom  Bois-l'Hery,  as 
they  call  him  here,  undertook  to  joke  with  that 
Irish  beast,  who  —  at  some  Parisian  gamin's  jest  — 
retorted  by  a  terrible  Belfast  knock-down  blow  in 
the  middle  of  the  face. 

"  Come  on,  Humpty-Dumpty !  Come  on, 
Humpty-Dumpty !  "  roared  the  coachman,  chok- 
ing with  rage,  while  they  carried  his  innocent 
victim  into  the  adjoining  room,  where  the  ladies, 
young  and  old,  were  engaged  in  bandaging  his 
nose.  The  excitement  was  soon  allayed,  thanks  to 
our  arrival,  thanks  also  to  the  judicious  words  of 
M.  Barreau,  a  man  of  mature  years,  sedate  and 
majestic,  of  my  own  type.  He  is  the  Nabob's 
cook,  formerly  chef  at  the  Cafe  Anglais,  and 
M.  Cardailhac,  manager  of  the  Nouveautes,  secured 
him  for  his  friend.  To  see  him  in  his  black  coat 
and  white  cravat,  with  his  handsome,  full,  clean- 
shaven face,  you  would  take  him  for  one  of  the 
great  functionaries  of  the  Empire.  To  be  sure,  a 
cook  in  a  house  where  the  table  is  set  for  thirty 
people  every  morning,  in  addition  to  Madame's 
table,  and  where  everyone  is  fed  on  the  best  and 


224  ^'^^  Nabob. 

the  extra  best,  is  no  ordinary  cook-shop  artist. 
He  receives  a  colonel's  salary,  with  board  and 
lodging,  and  then  the  perquisites !  No  one  has 
any  idea  of  what  the  perquisites  amount  to  in  a 
place  like  that.  So  every  one  addressed  him  with 
great  respect,  with  the  consideration  due  to  a  man 
of  his  importance :  "  Monsieur  Barreau  "  here, 
"  my  dear  Monsieur  Barreau  "  there.  You  must 
not  imagine  that  the  servants  in  a  house  are  all 
chums  and  social  equals.  Nowhere  is  the  hier- 
archy more  strictly  observed  than  among  them. 
For  instance,  I  noticed  at  M.  Noel's  party  that  the 
coachmen  did  not  fraternize  with  their  grooms,  nor 
the  valets  de  chambre  with  the  footmen  and  out- 
riders, any  more  than  the  steward  and  butler 
mingled  with  the  scullions ;  and  when  M.  Barreau 
cracked  a  little  joke,  no  matter  what  it  was,  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  see  how  amused  his  underlings 
seemed  to  be.  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  these 
things.  Quite  the  contrary.  As  our  dean  used  to 
say :  "  A  society  without  a  hierarchy  is  a  house 
without  a  stairway."  But  the  fact  seemed  to  me 
worth  noting  in  these  memoirs. 

The  party,  I  need  not  say,  lacked  something  of 
its  brilliancy  until  the  return  of  its  fairest  orna- 
ments, the  ladies  who  had  gone  to  look  after  little 
Tom ;  ladies'  maids  with  glossy,  well-oiled  hair, 
housekeepers  in  beribboned  caps,  negresses,  gov- 
ernesses, among  whom  I  at  once  acquired  much 
prestige,  thanks  to  my  respectable  appearance  and 
the  nickname  "  my  uncle  "  which  the  youngest  of 
those  attractive    females  were  pleased   to    bestow 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk. — The  Servants.  225 

upon  me.  I  tell  you  there  was  no  lack  of  second- 
hand finery,  silk  and  lace,  even  much  faded  velvet, 
eight-button  gloves  cleaned  several  times  and  per- 
fumery picked  up  on  Madame's  toilet-table ;  but 
their  faces  were  happy,  their  minds  given  over  to 
gayety,  and  I  had  no  difficulty  in  forming  a  very 
lively  little  party  in  one  corner  —  always  perfectly 
proper,  of  course  —  that  goes  without  saying  —  and 
entirely  befitting  a  person  in  my  position.  But 
that  was  the  general  tone  of  the  occasion.  Not 
until  toward  the  close  of  the  collation  did  I  hear 
any  of  the  unseemly  remarks,  any  of  the  scandalous 
anecdotes  that  amuse  the  gentlemen  of  our  council 
so  highly ;  and  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  state  that 
Bois-l'Hery  the  coachman,  to  cite  no  other  instance, 
is  very  differently  brought  up  from  Bois-l'Hery  the 
master, 

M.  Noel  alone,  by  his  familiar  tone  and  the 
freedom  of  his  repartees,  overstepped  the  limit. 
There  's  a  man  who  does  not  scruple  to  call  things 
by  their  names.  For  instance,  he  said  to  M.  Francis, 
so  loud  that  he  could  be  heard  from  one  end  of  the 
salon  to  the  other :  "  I  say,  Francis,  your  old 
sharper  played  still  another  trick  on  us  last  week." 
And  as  the  other  threw  out  his  chest  with  a  digni- 
fied air,  M.  Noel  began  to  laugh.  "  No  offence, 
old  girl.  The  strong  box  is  full.  You  '11  never  get 
to  the  bottom  of  it."  And  it  was  then  that  he  told 
us  about  the  loan  of  fifteen  millions  I  mentioned 
above. 

Meanwhile  I  was  surprised  to  see  no  signs  of 
preparation  for  the  supper  mentioned  on  the  invi- 
voL.  I. — 15 


2  26  The  Nabob. 

tations,  and  I  expressed  my  anxiety  in  an  under- 
tone to  one  of  my  lovely  nieces,  who  replied : 

"  We  are  waiting  for  M.  Louis." 

"M.  Louis?" 

"What!  Don't  you  know  M.  Louis,  the  Due 
de  Mora's  valet  de  chambre?  " 

Thereupon  I  was  enlightened  on  the  subject  of 
that  influential  personage,  whose  good  offices  are 
sought  by  prefects,  senators,  even  by  ministers, 
and  who  evidently  makes  them  pay  roundly  for 
them,  for,  with  his  salary  of  twelve  hundred  francs 
from  the  duke,  he  has  saved  enough  to  have  an 
income  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs,  has  his 
daughters  at  the  boarding-school  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  his  son  at  Bourdaloue  College,  and  a  chalet 
in  Switzerland  to  which  the  whole  family  go  for 
the  vacation. 

At  that  juncture  the  personage  in  question 
arrived ;  but  there  was  nothing  in  his  appearance 
that  would  have  led  me  to  guess  his  position,  which 
has  not  its  like  in  Paris.  No  majesty  in  his  bear- 
ing, a  waistcoat  buttoned  to  the  chin,  a  mean, 
insolent  manner,  and  a  fashion  of  speaking  without 
opening  his  lips,  very  unpleasant  to  those  who  are 
listening  to  him. 

He  saluted  the  company  with  a  slight  nod, 
offered  a  finger  to  M.  Noel,  and  there  we  sat, 
staring  at  each  other,  congealed  by  his  grand 
manners,  when  a  door  was  thrown  open  at  the  end 
of  the  room  and  the  supper  made  its  appearance  — 
all  kinds  of  cold  meats,  pyramids  of  fruit,  bottles 
of  every  shape,  beneath  the  glare  of  two  candelabra. 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  227 

"  Now,  messieurs,  escort  the  ladies." 

In  a  moment  we  were  in  our  places,  the  ladies 
seated,  with  the  oldest  or  most  important  of  us 
men,  the  others  standing,  passing  dishes,  chattering, 
drinking  out  of  all  the  glasses,  picking  a  mouthful 
from  every  plate,  I  had  M.  Francis  for  my  neigh- 
bor, and  I  was  obliged  to  listen  to  his  spiteful 
remarks  against  M.  Louis,  of  whom  he  is  jealous 
because  he  has  such  a  fine  situation  in  comparison 
with  that  he  himself  holds  in  his  played-out  noble- 
man's household. 

"  He  's  a  parvenu,"  he  said  to  me  in  an  under- 
tone. "  He  owes  his  fortune  to  his  wife,  to  Madame 
Paul." 

It  seems  that  this  Madame  Paul  is  a  housekeeper 
who  has  been  twenty  years  in  the  duke's  service, 
and  who  understands,  as  no  one  else  does,  how  to 
make  a  certain  pomade  for  certain  infirmities  that 
he  has.  Mora  cannot  do  without  her.  Remarking 
that  fact,  M.  Louis  paid  his  court  to  the  old  woman, 
married  her,  although  he  is  much  younger  than 
she ;  and,  in  order  not  to  lose  his  nurse  aux  pom- 
viades,  His  Excellency  took  the  husband  for  his 
valet  de  chambre.  In  my  heart,  notwithstanding 
what  I  may  have  said  to  M.  Francis,  I  considered 
that  marriage  perfectly  proper  and  in  conformity 
with  the  healthiest  morality,  as  both  the  mayor 
and  the  cure  had  a  hand  in  it.  Moreover,  that 
excellent  repast,  consisting  of  choice  and  very  ex- 
pensive dishes  which  I  did  not  even  know  by  name, 
had  disposed  my  mind  to  indulgence  and  good 
humor.      But    everybody   was   not   in   the    same 


228  The  Nabob. 

mood,  for  I  heard  M.  Barreau's  baritone  voice  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table,  grumbling : 

"Why  does  he  meddle?  Do  I  stick  my  nose 
into  his  business?  In  the  first  place,  it's  a  matter 
that  concerns  Bompain,  not  him.  And  what  does 
it  amount  to?  What  is  it  that  he  finds  fault  with 
me  for?  The  butcher  sends  me  five  baskets  of 
meat  every  morning.  I  use  only  two  and  sell  the 
other  three.  Where  's  the  chef  who  does  n't  do 
that?  As  if  he  would  n't  do  better  to  keep  an  eye 
on  the  big  leakage  above  stairs,  instead  of  coming 
and  spying  about  my  basement.  When  I  think 
that  the  first-floor  clique  has  smoked  twenty-eight 
thousand  francs'  worth  of  cigars  in  three  months ! 
Twenty-eight  thousand  francs !  Ask  Noel  if  I  lie. 
And  on  the  second  floor,  in  Madame's  apartments, 
there's  a  fine  mess  of  linen,  dresses  thrown  aside 
after  one  wearing,  jewels  by  the  handful,  and  pearls 
so  thick  that  you  crush  'em  as  you  walk.  Oh ! 
you  just  wait  a  bit,  and  I  '11  take  a  twist  on  that 
little  fellow." 

I  understood  that  he  was  talking  about  M.  de 
Gery,  the  Nabob's  young  secretary,  who  often 
comes  to  the  Tcrritoriale,  where  he  does  nothing 
but  rummage  among  the  books.  Very  polite  cer- 
tainly, but  a  very  proud  youngster  who  does  not 
know  how  to  make  the  most  of  himself  There 
was  nothing  but  a  chorus  of  maledictions  against 
him  around  the  table.  Even  M.  Louis  delivered 
himself  on  that  subject,  with  his  high  and  mighty 
air: 

"  Our   cook,   my   dear    Monsieur   Barreau,    has 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  229 

recently  had  an  experience  similar  to  yours  with 
His  Excellency's  chief  secretary,  who  presumed  to 
indulge  in  some  observations  concerning  the  house- 
hold expenses.  The  cook  ran  up  to  the  duke's 
study  post-haste,  in  his  professional  costume,  and 
said,  with  his  hand  on  his  apron  string:  'Your 
Excellency  may  choose  between  Monsieur  and 
me.'  The  duke  did  not  hesitate.  One  can  find  as 
many  secretaries  as  one  wants ;  whereas  the  good 
cooks  are  all  known.  There  are  just  four  in  Paris. 
I  include  you,  my  dear  Barreau.  We  dismissed 
our  chief  secretary,  giving  him  a  prefecture  of  the 
first  class  as  a  consolation ;  but  we  kept  our  chief 
cook." 

"Ah!  that's  the  talk,"  said  M.  Barreau,  who 
was  delighted  to  hear  that  anecdote.  "  That 's 
what  it  is  to  be  in  a  great  nobleman's  service.  But 
parvenus  are  parvenus,  what  do  you  expect?  " 

"  And  Jansoulet  is  nothing  more  than  that," 
added  M.  Francis,  pulling  down  his  cuffs.  "  A 
man  who  was  once  a  porter  at  Marseille." 

At  that  M.  Noel  bristled  up. 

"  I  say  there,  old  Francis,  you  're  glad  enough 
to  have  the  porter  of  La  Cannebiere  pay  for  your 
roastings  at  boiiillottc  all  the  same.  You  won't  find 
many  parvenus  like  us,  who  loan  millions  to  kings, 
and  whom  great  noblemen  like  Mora  don't  blush 
to  receive  at  their  table." 

"  Oh  !  in  the  country,"  sneered  M.  Francis,  show- 
ing his  old  fangs. 

The  other  rose,  red  as  fire,  on  the  point  of  losing 
his  temper,  but  M.  Louis   made   a  sign  with  his 


230  The  Nabob. 

hand  that  he  had  something  to  say,  and  M.  Noel  at 
once  sat  down,  putting  his  hand  to  his  ear,  Hke  the 
rest  of  us,  in  order  to  lose  none  of  the  august  words. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  great  personage,  speaking 
with  the  ends  of  his  Hps  and  sipping  his  wine 
slowly ;  "  it  is  true  that  we  received  the  Nabob  at 
Grandbois  some  weeks  ago.  Indeed,  a  very  amus- 
ing thing  happened  there.  We  have  a  great  many 
mushrooms  in  the  second  park,  and  His  Excel- 
lency sometimes  amuses  himself  by  picking  them. 
At  dinner  a  great  dish  of  mushrooms  was  served. 
There  was  What-d  'ye-call-him  —  Thingamy  — • 
What 's-his-name  —  Marigny,  the  Minister  of  the 
Interior,  Monpavon,  and  your  master,  my  dear 
Noel.  The  mushrooms  made  the  round  of  the 
table, — they  looked  very  inviting,  and  the  gentle- 
men filled  their  plates,  all  except  Monsieur  le  Due, 
who  can't  digest  them  and  thought  that  politeness 
required  him  to  say  to  his  guests :  '  Oh !  it  is  n't 
that  I  am  afraid  of  them,  you  know.  They  are  all 
right,  —  I  picked  them  with  my  own  hand.' 

'■'■  ^  Sapristi !  '  said  Monpavon,  laughingly,  'in 
that  case,  my  dear  Auguste,  excuse  me  if  I  don't 
taste  them.'  Marign}^,  being  less  at  home,  looked 
askance  at  his  plate. 

"  '  Why,  Monpavon,  upon  my  word,  these  mush- 
rooms look  very  healthy.  I  am  really  sorry  that 
I  am  no  longer  hungry.' 

"The  duke  remained  perfectly  serious. 

"  *  Come,  Monsieur  Jansoulet,  I  trust  that  you 
won't  insult  me  as  they  have  done.  Mush-rooms 
selected  by  myself! ' 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk. — The  Servants.  231 

"  *  Oh  !  your  Excellency,  the  idea !  Why,  I 
would  eat  them  with  my  eyes  closed.' 

"  I  leave  it  to  you,  if  that  was  n't  great  luck  for 
the  poor  Nabob,  the  first  time  that  he  ate  a  meal 
with  us.  Duperron,  who  was  waiting  opposite 
him,  told  us  about  it  in  the  butler's  pantry.  It 
seems  that  it  was  the  most  comical  thing  in  the 
world  to  see  Jansoulet  stuff  himself  with  mush- 
rooms, rolling  his  eyes  in  terror,  while  the  others 
watched  him  curiously  without  touching  their 
plates.  It  made  him  sweat,  poor  devil !  And  the 
best  part  of  it  was  that  he  took  a  second  portion ; 
he  had  the  courage  to  take  more.  But  he  poured 
down  bumpers  of  wine  between  every  two  mouth- 
fuls.  Well!  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think?  That 
was  a  very  shrewd  move  on  his  part,  and  I  am  no 
longer  surprised  that  that  fat  ox-driver  has  been 
the  favorite  of  sovereigns.  He  knows  how  to 
flatter  them,  in  the  little  things  that  they  don't  talk 
about.  In  fact,  the  duke  has  doted  on  him  since 
that  day." 

That  little  story  caused  much  hilarity,  and  scat- 
tered the  clouds  collected  by  a  few  imprudent 
words.  And  thereupon,  as  the  wine  had  loosened 
all  our  tongues,  and  as  we  all  knew  one  another 
better,  we  rested  our  elbows  on  the  table  and 
began  to  talk  about  masters  and  places  where  we 
had  worked,  and  the  amusing  things  we  had  seen. 
Ah !  I  heard  some  fine  stories  and  had  a  glimpse 
at  some  domestic  scenes !  Naturally,  I  produced 
my  little  effect  with  the  story  of  my  pantry  at  the 
Territoriale,  of  the  time  when   I  used  to  put  my 


232  I  he  Nabob. 

ragout  in  the  empty  safe,  which  did  not  prevent 
our  cashier,  a  great  stickler  for  routine,  from 
changing  the  combination  every  two  days,  as  if  it 
contained  all  the  treasures  of  the  Bank  of  France. 
M.  Louis  seemed  to  enjoy  my  story.  But  the 
most  astonishing  thing  was  what  little  Bois-l'H6ry, 
with  his  Parisian  street-arab's  accent,  told  us  of 
the  home  life  of  his  employers. 

Marquis  and  Marquise  de  Bois-l'Hery,  second 
floor,  Boulevard  Haussmann.  Furniture  like  the 
Tuileries,  blue  satin  on  all  the  walls,  pictures, 
mantel  ornaments,  curiosities,  a  genuine  museum, 
I  tell  you  !  overflowing  on  to  the  landings.  Service 
very  stylish :  six  servants,  chestnut-colored  livery 
in  winter,  nankeen  livery  in  summer.  You  see 
those  people  everywhere, — at  the  small  Monday 
parties,  at  the  races,  at  first  nights,  at  ambassa- 
dors' balls,  and  their  names  always  in  the  news- 
papers, with  remarks  as  to  Madame's  fine  toilets 
and  Monsieur's  amazing  chic.  Well !  all  that  is 
nothing  but  flim-flam,  veneer,  outside  show,  and  if 
the  marquis  needed  a  hundred  sous,  no  one  would 
loan  them  to  him  on  his  worldly  possessions.  The 
furniture  is  hired  by  the  fortnight  from  Fitily,  the 
cocottes'  upholsterer.  The  curiosities,  the  pictures, 
belong  to  old  Schwalbach,  who  sends  his  cus- 
tomers there  and  makes  them  pay  double  price, 
because  a  man  does  n't  haggle  when  he  thinks  he 
is  buying  from  a  marquis,  an  amateur.  As  for 
the  marchioness's  dresses,  the  milliner  and  dress- 
maker furnish  her  with  them  for  exhibition  every 
season,    make   her   wear   the   new   styles,  a  little 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  233 

ridiculous  sometimes,  but  instantly  adopted  by 
society,  because  Madame  is  still  a  very  beautiful 
woman,  and  of  high  repute  in  the  matter  of  fash- 
ion ;  she  is  what  is  called  a  lanceiise.  And  the 
servants !  Provisional  like  all  the  rest,  changed 
every  week  at  the  pleasure  of  the  intelligence 
office,  which  sends  them  there  to  give  them  prac- 
tice before  taking  serious  positions.  They  may 
have  neither  sponsors  nor  certificates  ;  they  may 
have  just  come  from  prison  or  elsewhere.  Glanard, 
the  great  place-broker  on  Rue  de  la  Paix,  supplies 
Boulevard  Haussmann.  The  servants  stay  there 
one  week,  two  weeks,  long  enough  to  purchase 
recommendations  from  the  marquis,  who,  mark 
you,  pays  nothing  and  barely  feeds  them ;  for  in 
that  house  the  kitchen  ovens  are  cold  most  of  the 
time,  as  Monsieur  and  Madame  dine  out  almost 
every  evening,  or  attend  balls  at  which  supper  is 
served.  It  is  a  positive  fact  that  there  are  people 
in  Paris  who  take  the  buffet  seriously,  and  eat 
their  first  meal  of  the  day  after  midnight.  The 
Bois-l'Herys  are  well  posted  as  to  houses  where 
there  is  a  buffet.  They  will  tell  you  that  you  get 
a  very  good  supper  at  the  Austrian  embassy,  that 
the  Spanish  embassy  is  a  little  careless  in  the 
matter  of  wines,  and  that  the  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs  gives  you  the  best  chand-froid  de  volaillcs. 
Such  is  the  life  of  that  curious  household.  Noth- 
ing of  all  they  have  is  sewn  on ;  everything  is 
basted  or  pinned.  A  gust  of  wind,  and  away  it 
all  goes.  But  at  all  events  they  are  sure  of  losing 
nothing.     That   is   what   gives   the   marquis    that 


234  ^-^^  Nabob. 

blagucnr,  P^re  Tranquille  air,  as  he  looks  you  in 
the  face  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  much 
as  to  say :  "  Well,  what  then  ?  What  can  you  do 
to  me?" 

And  the  little  tiger,  in  the  aforesaid  attitude, 
with  his  prematurely  old,  vicious  child's  face, 
copied  his  master  so  perfectly  that  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  I  were  looking  at  the  man  himself  sitting 
in  our  administrative  council,  facing  the  Governor, 
and  overwhelming  him  with  his  cynical  jests. 
After  all,  we  must  agree  that  Paris  is  a  wonderful 
great  city,  for  any  one  to  be  able  to  live  here  in 
that  way  for  fifteen  years,  twenty  years  of  tricks 
and  dodges  and  throwing  dust  in  people's  eyes, 
without  everybody  finding  him  out,  and  to  go 
on  making  a  triumphant  entry  into  salons  in  the 
wake  of  a  footman  shouting  his  name  at  the  top  of 
his  voice:   "Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Bois-l'Hery." 

You  see,  you  must  have  been  to  a  servants' 
party  before  you  can  believe  all  that  one  learns 
there,  and  what  a  curious  thing  Parisian  society 
is  when  you  look  at  it  thus  from  below,  from  the 
basement.  For  instance,  happening  to  be  between 
M.  Francis  and  M.  Louis,  I  caught  this  scrap  of 
confidential  conversation  concerning  Sire  de  Mon- 
pavon.     M.  Louis  said  : 

"  You  are  doing  wrong,  Francis,  you  are  in  funds 
just  now.  You  ought  to  take  advantage  of  it  to 
return  that  money  to  the  Treasury." 

"What  can  you  expect?"  replied  M.  Francis, 
disconsolately.     "  Play  is  consuming  us." 

"Yes,    I   know.      But   beware.      We    shall    not 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  235 

always  be  at  hand.  We  may  die  or  go  out  of 
the  government.  In  that  case  you  will  be  called 
to  account  over  yonder.  It  will  be  a  terrible 
time." 

I  had  often  heard  a  whisper  of  the  marquis's 
forced  loan  of  two  hundred  thousand  francs  from 
the  State,  at  the  time  when  he  was  receiver-general ; 
but  the  testimony  of  his  valet  de  chambre  was  the 
worst  of  all.  Ah !  if  the  masters  suspected  what 
the  servants  know,  all  that  they  tell  in  their  quar- 
ters, if  they  could  hear  their  names  dragged  about 
in  the  sweepings  of  the  salons  and  the  kitchen 
refuse,  they  would  never  again  dare  to  say  so 
much  as :  "  Close  the  door,"  or  "  Order  the  car- 
riage." There  's  Dr.  Jenkins,  for  example,  with 
the  richest  practice  in  Paris,  has  lived  ten  years 
with  a  magnificent  wife,  who  is  eagerly  welcomed 
everywhere ;  he  has  done  everything  he  could  to 
conceal  his  real  position,  announced  his  marriage 
in  the  newspapers  in  the  English  style,  and  hired 
only  foreign  servants  who  know  barely  three  words 
of  French,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  With  these  few 
words,  seasoned  with  faubourg  oaths  and  blows  on 
the  table,  his  coachman  Joe,  who  detests  him,  told 
us  his  whole  history  while  we  were  at  supper. 

"  She  's  going  to  croak,  his  Irishwoman,  his  real 
wife.  Now  we  '11  see  if  he  '11  marry  the  other  one. 
Forty-five  years  old  Mistress  Maranne  is,  and  not 
a  shilling.  You  ought  to  see  how  afraid  she  is  that 
he  '11  turn  her  out.  Marry  her,  not  marry  her  — 
kss-kss  —  what  a  laugh  we'll  have."  And  the 
more  they  gave  him  to  drink,  the  more  he  told, 


236  The  Nabob. 

speaking  of  his  unfortunate  mistress  as  the  lowest 
of  the  low.  For  my  part,  I  confess  that  she  ex- 
cited my  interest,  that  false  Madame  Jenkins,  who 
weeps  in  every  corner,  implores  her  husband  as  if 
he  were  the  headsman,  and  is  in  danger  of  being 
sent  about  her  business  when  all  society  believes 
her  to  be  married,  respectable,  established  for  life. 
The  others  did  nothing  but  laugh,  especially  the 
women.  Dame  !  it  is  amusing  when  one  is  in  ser- 
vice to  see  that  these  ladies  of  the  upper  ten  have 
their  affronts  too,  and  tormenting  cares  which  keep 
them  awake. 

At  that  moment  our  party  presented  a  most 
animated  aspect,  a  circle  of  merry  faces  turned 
toward  the  Irishman,  who  carried  off  the  palm 
by  his  anecdote.  That  aroused  envy ;  every  one 
rummaged  his  memory  and  dragged  out  whatever 
he  could  find  there  of  old  scandals,  adventures  of 
betrayed  husbands,  all  the  domestic  secrets  that 
are  poured  out  on  the  kitchen  table  with  the  re- 
mains of  dishes  and  the  dregs  of  bottles.  The 
champagne  was  beginning  to  lay  hold  of  its  vic- 
tims among  the  guests.  Joe  insisted  on  dancing 
a  jig  on  the  cloth.  The  ladies,  at  the  slightest 
suggestion  that  was  a  trifle  broad,  threw  them- 
selves back  with  the  piercing  laughter  of  a  person 
who  is  being  tickled,  letting  their  embroidered  skirts 
drag  under  the  table,  which  was  piled  with  broken 
victuals,  and  covered  with  grease.  M.  Louis  had 
prudently  withdrawn.  The  glasses  were  filled  be- 
fore they  were  emptied ;  a  chambermaid  dipped  a 
handkerchief  in  hers,  which  was  full  of  water,  and 


Memoirs  of  a  Clerk.  —  The  Servants.  237 

bathed  her  forehead  with  it  because  her  head  was 
going  round,  she  said.  It  was  time  that  it  should 
end ;  in  fact,  an  electric  bell,  ringing  loudly  in  the 
hall,  warned  us  that  the  footman  on  duty  at  the 
theatre  had  called  the  coachmen.  Thereupon 
Monpavon  proposed  a  toast  to  the  master  of 
the  house,  thanking  him  for  his  little  party.  M. 
Noel  announced  that  he  would  repeat  it  at  Saint- 
Romans,  during  the  festivities  in  honor  of  the  bey, 
to  which  most  of  those  present  would  probably  be 
invited.  And  I  was  about  to  rise  in  my  turn,  being 
sufficiently  familiar  with  banquets  to  know  that  on 
such  occasions  the  oldest  of  the  party  is  expected 
to  propose  a  toast  to  the  ladies,  when  the  door  was 
suddenly  thrown  open  and  a  tall  footman,  all  muddy, 
breathless  and  perspiring,  with  a  dripping  umbrella 
in  his  hand,  roared  at  us,  with  no  respect  for  the 
guests : 

"  Come,  get  out  of  here,  you  pack  of  cads ; 
what  are  you  doing  here?  Don't  I  tell  you  it's 
done !  " 


238  Tlie  Nabob. 


XL 

THE   FfiTES   IN   HONOR   OF   THE   BEY. 

In  the  regions  of  the  South,  of  the  civilization  of 
long  ago,  the  historic  chateaux  still  standing  are 
very  few.  At  rare  intervals  some  old  abbey  rears 
its  tottering  and  dismantled  fagade  on  a  hillside, 
pierced  with  holes  which  once  were  windows, 
which  see  naught  now  but  the  sky,  —  monuments 
of  dust,  baked  by  the  sun,  dating  from  the  days  of 
the  Crusades  or  of  Courts  of  Love,  without  a  trace 
of  man  among  their  stones,  where  even  the  ivy  has 
ceased  to  climb,  and  the  acanthus,  but  where  the 
dried  lavender  and  the  fh'igonle  perfume  the  air. 
Amid  all  these  ruins  the  chateau  de  Saint-Romans 
stands  forth  a  glorious  exception.  If  you  have 
travelled  in  the  South  you  have  seen  it,  and  you 
shall  see  it  again  in  a  moment.  It  is  between 
Valence  and  Montelimart,  in  a  neighborhood 
where  the  railroad  runs  straight  along  the  Rhone, 
at  the  base  of  the  hills  of  Beaume,  Rancoule  and 
Mercurol,  the  whole  glowing  vintage  of  the  Her- 
mitage, spread  out  over  five  leagues  of  vines  grow- 
ing in  close,  straight  lines  in  the  vineyards,  which 
seem  to  the  eye  like  fields  of  fleece,  and  extend  to 
the  very  brink  of  the  river,  as  green  and  full  of 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     239 

islands  at  that  spot  as  the  Rhine  near  Bale,  but 
with  such  a  flood  of  sunshine  as  the  Rhine  never 
had.  Saint-Romans  is  opposite,  on  the  other 
bank;  and,  notwithstanding  the  swiftness  of  the 
vision,  the  headlong  rush  of  the  railway  carriages, 
which  seem  determined  at  every  curve  to  plunge 
madly  into  the  Rhone,  the  chateau  is  so  huge, 
extends  so  far  along  the  neighboring  slope,  that  it 
seems  to  follow  the  wild  race  of  the  train  and  fixes 
in  your  eyes  forever  the  memory  of  its  flights  of 
steps,  its  balcony-rails,  its  Italian  architecture,  two 
rather  low  stories  surmounted  by  a  terrace  with 
little  pillars,  flanked  by  two  wings  with  slated 
roofs,  and  overlooking  the  sloping  banks,  where 
the  water  from  the  cascades  rushes  down  to  the 
river,  the  network  of  gravelled  paths,  the  vista 
formed  by  hedges  of  great  height  with  a  white 
statue  at  the  end  sharply  outlined  against  the 
blue  sky  as  against  the  luminous  background  of  a 
stained-glass  window.  Far  up,  among  the  vast 
lawns  whose  brilliant  verdure  defies  the  blazing 
climate,  a  gigantic  cedar  rears,  terrace-like,  its 
masses  of  green  foliage,  with  its  swaying  dark 
shadows,  —  an  exotic  figure,  which  makes  one 
think,  as  he  stands  before  that  sometime  abode  of 
a  farmer-general  of  the  epoch  of  Louis  XIV.,  of 
a  tall  negro  carrying  a  courtier's  umbrella. 

From  Valence  to  Marseille,  throughout  the 
valley  of  the  Rhone,  Saint-Romans  de  Bellaigue  is 
as  famous  as  a  fairy  palace ;  and  a  genuine  fairy- 
land in  those  regions,  scorched  by  the  mistral,  is 
that  oasis  of  verdure  and  of  lovely,  gushing  water. 


240  The  Nabob. 

"  When  I  am  rich,  mamma,"  Jansoulet,  when  he 
was  a  mere  urchin,  used  to  say  to  his  mother 
whom  he  adored,  "  I  '11  give  you  Saint-Romans  de 
Bellaigue," 

And  as  that  man's  life  seemed  the  realization  of 
a  tale  of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  as  all  his 
wishes  were  gratified,  even  the  most  unconscion- 
able, as  his  wildest  chimeras  took  definite  shape 
before  him,  and  licked  his  hands  like  docile  pet 
spaniels,  he  had  purchased  Saint-Romans  in  order 
to  present  it  to  his  mother,  newly  furnished  and 
gorgeously  restored.  Although  ten  years  had 
passed  since  then,  the  good  woman  was  not  yet 
accustomed  to  that  magnificent  establishment. 
"  Why,  you  have  given  me  Queen  Jeanne's  palace, 
my  dear  Bernard,"  she  wrote  to  her  son ;  "  I  shall 
never  dare  to  live  in  it."  As  a  matter  of  fact  she 
never  had  lived  in  it,  having  installed  herself  in  the 
steward's  house,  a  wing  of  modern  construction  at 
the  end  of  the  main  buildings,  conveniently  situated 
for  overlooking  the  servants'  quarters  and  the 
farm,  the  sheepfolds  and  the  oil-presses,  with  their 
rustic  outlook  of  grain  in  stacks,  of  olive-trees  and 
vines  stretching  out  over  the  fields  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see.  In  the  great  chateau  she  would  have 
fancied  herself  a  prisoner  in  one  of  those  enchanted 
dwellings  where  sleep  seizes  you  in  the  fulness  of 
your  joy  and  does  not  leave  you  for  a  hundred 
years.  Here  at  all  events  the  peasant  woman,  who 
had  never  been  able  to  accustom  herself  to  that 
colossal  fortune,  which  had  come  too  late,  from  too 
great   a   distance   and  like  a  thunderbolt,  felt  in 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     241 

touch  with  real  Hfe  by  virtue  of  the  going  and 
coming  of  the  laborers,  the  departure  and  return 
of  the  cattle,  their  visits  to  the  watering-place,  all 
the  details  of  pastoral  Hfe,  which  awakened  her 
with  the  familiar  crowing  of  the  roosters,  the  shrill 
cries  of  the  peacocks,  and  sent  her  down  the  wind- 
ing staircase  before  daybreak.  She  deemed  her- 
self simply  a  trustee  of  that  magnificent  property, 
of  which  she  had  charge  for  her  son's  benefit,  and 
Avhich  she  proposed  to  turn  over  to  him  in  good 
condition  on  the  day  when,  considering  himself 
wealthy  enough  and  weary  of  living  among  the 
Tnrs,  he  should  come,  as  he  had  promised,  and 
live  with  her  beneath  the  shade  of  Saint-Romans. 

Imagine  then  her  untiring,  all-pervading  watch- 
fulness. 

In  the  twilight  of  early  dawn,  the  farm  servants 
heard  her  hoarse,  husky  voice : 

"  Olivier  —  Peyrol  —  Audibert  —  Come  !  It 's 
four  o'clock."  Then  a  dive  into  the  huge  kitchen, 
where  the  maids,  heavy  with  sleep,  were  warming 
the  soup  over  the  bright,  crackling  peat  fire. 
They  gave  her  her  little  plate  of  red  Marseille 
earthenware,  filled  with  boiled  chestnuts,  the  frugal 
breakfast  of  an  earlier  time  which  nothing  could 
induce  her  to  change.  Off  she  went  at  once  with 
long  strides,  the  keys  jingling  on  the  great  silver 
key-ring  fastened  to  her  belt,  her  plate  in  her 
hand,  held  in  equilibrium  by  the  distaff  which  she 
held  under  her  arm  as  if  ready  for  battle,  for  she 
spun  all  day  long,  and  did  not  stop  even  to  eat  her 
chestnuts.     A  glance,  as  she  passed,  at  the  stable, 

VOL.  I. — 16 


242  The  Nabob. 

still  dark,  where  the  horses  were  sluggishly  moving 
about,  at  the  stifling  cow-shed,  filled  with  heads 
impatiently  stretched  toward  the  door;  and  the 
first  rays  of  dawn,  stealing  over  the  courses  of 
stone  that  supported  the  embankment  of  the  park, 
fell  upon  the  old  woman  running  through  the  dew 
with  the  agility  of  a  girl,  despite  her  seventy  years, 
verifying  exactly  each  morning  all  the  treasures  of 
the  estate,  anxious  to  ascertain  whether  the  night 
had  stolen  the  statues  and  urns,  uprooted  the  cen- 
tenary trees,  dried  up  the  sparkling  fountains  that 
plashed  noisily  in  their  bowls.  Then  the  bright 
southern  sun,  humming  and  vibrating,  outlined 
upon  the  gravel  of  a  path,  or  against  the  white 
supporting  wall  of  a  terrace,  that  tall  old  woman's 
figure,  slender  and  straight  as  her  distaff,  picking 
up  pieces  of  dead  wood,  breaking  off  a  branch 
from  a  shrub  that  was  out  of  line,  heedless  of  the 
scorching  reflection  which  affected  her  tough  skin 
no  more  than  an  old  stone  bench.  About  that 
hour  another  promenader  appeared  in  the  park, 
less  active,  less  bustling,  dragging  himself  along 
rather  than  walking,  leaning  on  the  walls  and  rail- 
ings, a  poor  bent,  palsied  creature,  with  a  lifeless 
face  to  which  one  could  assign  no  age,  who, 
when  he  was  tired,  uttered  a  faint,  plaintive  cry  to 
call  the  servant,  who  was  always  at  hand  to  assist 
him  to  sit  down,  to  huddle  himself  up  on  some 
step,  where  he  would  remain  for  hours,  motionless 
and  silent,  his  mouth  half-open,  blinking  his  eyes, 
soothed  by  the  strident  monotony  of  the  locusts,  a 
human  blot  on  the  face  of  the  superb  landscape. 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     243 

He  was  the  oldest,  Bernard's  brother,  the  cher- 
ished darhng  of  the  Jansoulets,  father  and  mother, 
the  hope  and  the  glory  of  the  family  of  the  junk- 
dealer,  who,  faithful  like  so  many  more  in  the 
South  to  the  superstition  concerning  the  right  of 
primogeniture,  had  made  every  conceivable  sacri- 
fice to  send  that  handsome,  ambitious  youth  to 
Paris ;  and  he  had  started  with  four  or  five  mar- 
shals' batons  in  his  trunk,  the  admiration  of  all  the 
girls  in  the  village;  but  Paris — after  it  had  beaten 
and  twisted  and  squeezed  that  brilliant  Southern 
rag  in  its  great  vat  for  ten  years,  burned  him  in  all 
its  acids,  rolled  him  in  all  its  mire  —  relegated  him 
at  last  to  the  state  of  battered  flotsam  and  jetsam, 
embruted,  paralyzed,  which  had  killed  his  father 
with  grief  and  compelled  his  mother  to  sell  every- 
thing in  her  house  and  to  live  by  domestic  service 
in  the  well-to-do  families  of  the  neighborhood. 
Luckily,  just  about  the  time  that  that  relic  of 
Parisian  hospitals,  sent  back  to  his  home  by  public 
charity,  appeared  in  Bourg-Saint-Andeol,  Bernard, 
—  who  was  called  Cadet,  as  in  all  the  half-Arab 
Southern  families,  where  the  eldest  son  always 
takes  the  family  name  and  the  last  comer  the  name 
of  Cadet,  —  Bernard  was  already  in  Tunis,  in  pro- 
cess of  making  his  fortune,  and  sending  money 
home  regularly.  But  what  remorse  it  caused  the 
poor  mother  to  owe  everything,  even  life  itself, 
and  the  comfort  of  the  wretched  invalid,  to  the 
brave,  energetic  lad,  of  whom  his  father  and  she 
had  always  been  fond,  but  without  genuine  tender- 
ness, and  whom,  from  the  time  he  was  five  years 


244  ^^^^  Nabob. 

old,  they  had  been  accustomed  to  treat  as  a  day- 
laborer,  because  he  was  very  strong  and  hairy  and 
ugly,  and  was  already  shrewder  than  any  one  else 
in  the  house  in  the  matter  of  dealing  in  old  iron. 
Ah !  how  she  would  have  liked  to  have  her  Cadet 
with  her,  to  repay  him  a  little  of  all  he  was  doing 
for  her,  to  pay  in  one  sum  all  the  arrears  of  affec- 
tion, of  motherly  cosseting  that  she  owed  him. 

But,  you  see,  these  kingly  fortunes  have  the  bur- 
dens, the  vexations  of  kingly  existences.  Poor 
Mother  Jansoulet,  in  her  dazzling  surroundings, 
was  much  like  a  genuine  queen,  having  undergone 
the  long  banishments,  the  cruel  separations  and 
trials  which  atone  for  earthly  grandeur ;  one  of  her 
sons  in  a  state  of  stupid  lethargy  for  all  time,  the 
other  far  away,  writing  little,  engrossed  by  his 
great  interests,  always  saying,  "  I  will  come,"  and 
never  coming.  In  twelve  years  she  had  seen  him 
but  once,  in  the  confusion  of  the  bey's  visit  at 
Saint-Romans  :  a  bewildering  succession  of  horses, 
carriages,  fireworks,  and  festivities.  Then  he  had 
whirled  away  again  behind  his  sovereign,  having 
had  hardly  time  to  embrace  his  old  mother,  who 
had  retained  naught  of  that  great  joy,  so  impa- 
tiently awaited,  save  a  few  newspaper  pictures,  in 
which  Bernard  Jansoulet  was  exhibited  arriving  at 
the  chateau  with  Ahmed  and  presenting  his  aged 
mother  to  him,  —  is  not  that  the  way  in  which 
kings  and  queens  have  their  family  reunions  illus- 
trated in  the  journals?  —  plus  a  cedar  of  Lebanon, 
brought  from  the  end  of  the  world,  —  a  great 
camniajitran  of  a  tree,  which  was    as   costly  to 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     245 

move  and  as  much  in  the  way  as  the  obelisk  — 
being  hoisted  and  planted  by  force  of  men  and 
money  and  horses  ;  a  tree  which  had  wrought  con- 
fusion among  the  shrubbery  as  the  price  of  setting 
up  a  souvenir  commemorative  of  the  royal  visit.  On 
his  present  trip  to  France,  at  least,  knowing  that 
he  had  come  for  several  months,  perhaps  forever, 
she  hoped  to  have  her  Bernard  all  to  herself  And 
lo  !  he  swooped  down  upon  her  one  fine  evening, 
enveloped  in  the  same  triumphant  splendor,  in  the 
same  official  pomp,  surrounded  by  a  multitude  of 
counts,  marquises,  fine  gentlemen  from  Paris,  who 
with  their  servants  filled  the  two  great  breaks  she 
had  sent  to  meet  them  at  the  little  station  of  Giffas, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhone. 

"  Come,  come,  embrace  me,  my  dear  mamma. 
There 's  no  shame  in  hugging  your  boy,  whom 
you  have  n't  seen  for  years,  close  to  your  heart. 
Besides,  all  these  gentlemen  are  friends  of  ours. 
This  is  Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Monpavon,  and 
Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Bois-l'Hery.  Ah !  the 
time  has  gone  by  when  I  used  to  bring  you  to  eat 
bean  soup  with  us,  little  Cabassu  and  Bompain 
Jean-Baptiste.  You  know  Monsieur  de  Gery  — 
he,  with  my  old  friend  Cardailhac,  whom  I  intro- 
duce to  you,  make  up  the  first  batch.  But  others 
are  coming.  Prepare  for  a  terrible  how-d'ye-do. 
We  receive  the  bey  in  four  days." 

"The  bey  again!"  said  the  good  woman  in 
dismay.     "  I  thought  he  was  dead." 

Jansoulet  and  his  guests  could  but  laugh  at  her 
comical  alarm,  heightened  by  her  Southern  accent 


246  The  Nabob. 

"  But  there 's  another,  mamma.  There  are 
always  beys  —  luckily  for  me,  sapristi!  But  don't 
you  be  afraid.  You  won't  have  so  much  trouble 
on  your  hands.  Friend  Cardailhac  has  undertaken 
to  look  after  things.  We  're  going  to  have  some 
superb  fetes.  Meanwhile  give  us  some  dinner 
quick,  and  show  us  our  rooms.  Our  Parisian 
friends  are  tired  out." 

"  Everything  is  ready,  my  son,"  said  the  old 
woman  simply,  standing  stiffly  erect  in  her  cap  of 
Cambrai  linen,  with  points  yellowed  by  age,  which 
she  never  laid  aside  even  on  great  occasions. 
Wealth  had  not  changed  Jier.  She  was  the  typical 
peasant  of  the  Rhone  valley,  independent  and 
proud,  with  none  of  the  cunning  humility  of  the 
rustics  described  by  Balzac,  too  simple,  too,  to  be 
puffed  up  by  wealth.  Her  only  pride  was  to  show 
her  son  with  what  painstaking  zeal  she  had  acquit- 
ted herself  of  her  duties  as  care-taker.  Not  an 
atom  of  dust,  not  a  trace  of  dampness  on  the  walls. 
The  whole  magnificent  ground-floor,  the  salons 
with  the  silk  draperies  and  upholstery  of  changing 
hue,  taken  at  the  last  moment  from  their  coverings ; 
the  long  summer  galleries,  with  cool,  resonant 
inlaid  floors,  which  the  Louis  XV.  couches,  with 
cane  seats  and  backs  upholstered  with  flowered 
stuffs,  furnished  with  summer-like  coquetry;  the 
enormous  dining-hall,  decorated  with  flowers  and 
branches ;  even  the  billiard-room,  with  its  rows  of 
gleaming  balls,  its  chandeliers  and  cue-racks,  —  the 
whole  vast  extent  of  the  chateau,  seen  through  the 
long  door-windows,   wide   open   upon   the    broad 


The  Fetes  in  Hojior  of  the  Bey.     247 

seignorial  porch,  displayed  its  splendor  to  the  ad- 
miration of  the  visitors,  and  reflected  the  beauty  of 
that  marvellous  landscape,  lying  serene  and  peace- 
ful in  the  setting  sun,  in  the  mirrors,  the  waxed 
or  varnished  wainscoting,  with  the  same  fidelity 
with  which  the  poplars  bowing  gracefully  to  each 
other,  and  the  swans,  placidly  swimming,  were  re- 
produced on  the  mirror-like  surface  of  the  ponds. 
The  frame  was  so  beautiful,  the  general  outlook  so 
superb,  that  the  obtrusive,  tasteless  luxury  melted 
away,  disappeared  even  to  the  most  sensitive  eye. 

"  There 's  something  to  work  with,"  said  Cardail- 
hac  the  manager,  with  his  monocle  at  his  eye,  his 
hat  on  one  side,  already  planning  his  stage-setting. 

And  the  haughty  mien  of  Monpavon,  who  had 
been  somewhat  offended  at  first  by  the  old  lady's 
head-dress  when  she  received  them  on  the  porch, 
gave  place  to  a  condescending  smile.  Certainly 
there  was  something  to  work  with,  and  their  friend 
Jansoulet,  under  the  guidance  of  men  of  taste, 
could  give  his  Maugrabin  Highness  a  very  hand- 
some reception.  They  talked  about  nothing  else 
all  the  evening.  Sitting  in  the  sumptuous  dining- 
room,  with  their  elbows  on  the  table,  warmed  by 
wine  and  with  full  stomachs,  they  planned  and  dis- 
cussed. Cardailhac,  whose  views  were  broad,  had 
his  plan  all  formed. 

"  Carte  blanche,  of  course,  eh.  Nabob?" 

"  Carte  blanche,  old  fellow.  And  let  old  Hem- 
erlingue  burst  with  rage." 

Thereupon  the  manager  detailed  his  plans,  the 
festivities  to  be  divided  by  days,  as  at  Vaux  when 


248  The  Nabob. 

Fouquet  entertained  Louis  XIV. ;  one  day  a  play, 
another  day  Provencal  fetes,  farandoles,  bull-fights, 
local  music;  the  third  day —  And,  in  his  mania 
for  management,  he  was  already  outlining  pro- 
grammes, posters,  while  Bois-l'Hery,  with  both 
hands  in  his  pockets,  lying  back  in  his  chair,  slept 
peacefully  with  his  cigar  stuck  in  the  corner  of  his 
sneering  mouth,  and  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon, 
always  on  parade,  drew  up  his  breastplate  every 
moment,  to  keep  himself  awake. 

De  Gery  had  left  them  early.  He  had  gone  to 
take  refuge  with  the  old  lady  —  who  had  known 
him,  and  his  brothers,  too,  when  they  were  chil- 
dren—  in  the  modest  parlor  in  the  wing,  with  the 
white  curtains  and  light  wall-paper  covered  with 
figures,  where  the  Nabob's  mother  tried  to  revive 
her  past  as  an  artisan,  with  the  aid  of  some  relics 
saved  from  the  wreck. 

Paul  talked  softly,  sitting  opposite  the  handsome 
old  woman  with  the  severe  and  regular  features, 
the  white  hair  piled  on  top  of  her  head  like  the 
flax  on  her  distaff,  who  sat  erect  upon  her  chair, 
her  flat  bust  wrapped  in  a  little  green  shawl ;  — 
never  in  her  life  had  she  rested  her  back  against 
the  back  of  a  chair  or  sat  in  an  armchair.  He 
called  her  Fran^oise  and  she  called  him  Monsieur 
Paul.  They  were  old  friends.  And  what  do  you 
suppose  they  were  talking  about?  Of  her  grand- 
children, pardi !  of  Bernard's  three  boys  whom 
she  did  not  know,  whom  she  would  have  loved  so 
dearly  to  know. 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  Paul,  if  you  knew  how  I  long 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     249 

for  them  !  I  should  have  been  so  happy  if  he  had 
brought  me  my  three  h'ttle  ones  instead  of  all 
these  fine  gentlemen.  Just  think,  I  have  never 
seen  them,  except  in  those  pictures  yonder.  Their 
mother  frightens  me  a  bit,  she  's  a  great  lady  out- 
and-out,  a  Demoiselle  Afchin.  But  the  children, 
I  'm  sure  they  're  not  little  coxcombs,  but  would 
be  very  fond  of  their  old  granny.  It  would  seem 
to  me  as  if  it  was  their  father  a  little  boy  again, 
and  I  'd  give  them  what  I  did  n't  give  the  father  — 
for,  you  see.  Monsieur  Paul,  parents  are  n't  always 
just.  They  have  favorites.  But  God  is  just.  You 
ought  to  see  how  He  deals  with  the  faces  that  you 
paint  and  fix  up  the  best,  to  the  injury  of  the 
others.  And  the  favoritism  of  the  old  people 
often  does  harm  to  the  young." 

She  sighed  as  she  glanced  in  the  direction  of 
the  great  alcove,  from  which,  through  the  high 
lambrequins  and  falling  draperies,  issued  at  inter- 
vals a  long,  shuddering  breath  like  the  moan  of  a 
sleeping  child  who  has  been  whipped  and  has 
cried  bitterly. 

A  heavy  step  on  the  stairs,  an  unmelodious 
but  gentle  voice,  saying  in  a  low  tone :  "  It 's 
I  —  don't  move,"  —  and  Jansoulet  appeared.  As 
everybody  had  gone  to  bed  at  the  chateau,  he, 
knowing  his  mother's  habits  and  that  hers  was 
always  the  last  light  to  be  extinguished  in  the 
house,  had  come  to  see  her,  to  talk  with  her  a 
little,  to  exchange  the  real  greeting  of  the  heart 
which  they  had  been  unable  to  exchange  in  the 
presence  of  others.     "Oh!  stay,  my  dear   Paul; 


250  The  Nabob. 

we  don't  mind  you."  And,  becoming  a  child  once 
more  in  his  mother's  presence,  he  threw  his  whole 
long  body  on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  with  cajoling 
words  and  gestures  really  touching  to  behold. 
She  was  very  happy  too  to  have  him  by  her  side, 
but  she  was  a  little  embarrassed  none  the  less, 
looking  upon  him  as  an  all-powerful,  strange  being, 
exalting  him  in  her  artless  innocence  to  the  level 
of  an  Olympian  encompassed  by  thunder-bolts 
and  lightning-flashes,  possessing  the  gift  of  om- 
nipotence. She  talked  to  him,  inquired  if  he  was 
still  satisfied  with  his  friends,  with  the  condition 
of  his  affairs,  but  did  not  dare  to  ask  the  question 
she  had  asked  de  Gery :  "  Why  did  n't  you  bring 
me  my  little  grandsons?"  —  But  he  broached  the 
subject  himself. 

"  They  're  at  boarding-school,  mamma ;  as  soon 
as  the  vacation  comes,  I  '11  send  them  to  you  with 
Bompain.  You  remember  him,  don't  you,  Bom- 
pain  Jean-Baptiste?  And  you  shall  keep  them 
two  whole  months.  They  '11  come  to  you  to  have 
you  tell  them  fine  stories,  they  '11  go  to  sleep  with 
their  heads  on  your  apron,  like  this  —  " 

And  he  himself,  placing  his  curly  head,  heavy 
as  lead,  on  the  old  woman's  knees,  recalling  the 
happy  evenings  of  his  childhood  when  he  went 
to  sleep  that  way  if  he  were  allowed  to  do  so,  if 
his  older  brother's  head  did  not  take  up  all  the 
room  —  he  enjoyed,  for  the  first  time  since  his 
return  to  France,  a  few  moments  of  blissful  repose, 
outside  of  his  tumultuous  artificial  life,  pressed 
against  that  old   motherly  heart  which  he  could 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     251 

hear  beating  regularly,  like  the  pendulum  of  the 
century-old  clock  standing  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
in  the  profound  silence  of  the  night,  which  one 
can  feel  in  the  country,  hovering  over  the  bound- 
less expanse.  Suddenly  the  same  long  sigh,  as 
of  a  child  who  has  fallen  asleep  sobbing,  was 
repeated  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 

"Is  that  —  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  have  him  sleep  here.  He 
might  need  me  in  the  night." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,  to  embrace  him." 

"  Come." 

The  old  woman  rose,  took  her  lamp,  led  the  way 
gravely  to  the  alcove,  where  she  softly  drew  aside 
the  long  curtain  and  motioned  to  her  son  to  come, 
without  making  a  noise. 

He  was  asleep.  And  it  was  certain  that  some- 
thing lived  in  him  that  was  not  there  the  day 
before,  for,  instead  of  the  flaccid  immobility  in 
which  he  was  mired  all  day,  he  was  shaken  at  that 
moment  by  violent  tremors,  and  on  his  expression- 
less, dead  face  there  was  a  wrinkle  of  suffering  life, 
a  contraction  as  of  pain.  Jansoulet,  profoundly 
moved,  gazed  at  that  thin,  wasted,  earth-colored 
face,  on  which  the  beard,  having  appropriated  all 
the  vitality  of  the  body,  grew  with  surprising 
vigor;  then  he  stooped,  placed  his  lips  on  the 
forehead  moist  with  perspiration,  and,  feeling  that 
he  started,  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  gravely,  respect- 
fully, as  one  addresses  the  head  of  the  family: 

"  Good-evening,  Aine." 

Perhaps  the  imprisoned  mind  heard  him  in  the 


252  The  Nabob. 

depths  of  its  dark,  degrading  purgatory.  But  the 
lips  moved  and  a  long  groan  made  answer ;  a  far- 
ofif  wail,  a  despairing  appeal  caused  the  glance 
Frangoise  and  her  son  exchanged  to  overflow  with 
impotent  tears,  and  drew  from  them  both  a  simul- 
taneous cry  in  which  their  sorrows  met :  Pcca'ire  / 
the  local  word  expressive  of  all  pity,  all  affection. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  uproar  began  with 
the  arrival  of  the  actors  and  actresses,  an  avalanche 
of  caps,  chignons,  high  boots,  short  petticoats, 
affected  screams,  veils  floating  over  the  fresh  coats 
of  rouge ;  the  women  were  in  a  large  majority, 
Cardailhac  having  reflected  that,  where  a  bey  was 
concerned,  the  performance  was  of  little  conse- 
quence, that  one  need  only  emit  false  notes  from 
pretty  lips,  show  lovely  arms  and  well-turned  legs 
in  the  free-and-easy  neglig6  of  the  operetta.  All 
the  plastic  celebrities  of  his  theatre  were  on  hand, 
therefore.  Amy  Ferat  at  their  head,  a  hussy  who 
had  already  tried  her  eye-teeth  on  the  gold  of 
several  crowns ;  also  two  or  three  famous  comic 
actors,  whose  pallid  faces  produced  the  same  effect 
of  chalky,  spectral  blotches  amid  the  bright  green 
of  the  hedgerows  as  was  produced  by  the  plaster 
statuettes.  All  that  motley  crew,  enlivened  by  the 
journey,  the  unfamiliar  fresh  air,  and  the  copious 
hospitaHty,  as  well  as  by  the  hope  of  hooking 
something  in  that  procession  of  beys,  nabobs,  and 
other  purse-bearers,  asked  nothing  better  than  to 
caper  and  sing  and  make  merry,  with  the  vulgar 
enthusiasm  of  a  crowd  of  Seine  boatmen  ashore 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     253 

on  a  lark.  But  Cardailhac  did  not  propose  to 
have  it  so.  As  soon  as  they  had  arrived,  made 
their  toilets  and  eaten  their  first  breakfast,  out 
came  the  books ;  we  must  rehearse  !  —  There  was 
no  time  to  lose.  The  rehearsals  took  place  in  the 
small  salon  near  the  summer  gallery,  where  they 
were  already  beginning  to  build  the  stage ;  and 
the  noise  of  the  hammers,  the  humming  of  the 
refrains,  the  thin  voices  supported  by  the  squeak- 
ing of  the  orchestra  leader's  violin,  mingled  with 
the  loud  trumpet-calls  of  the  peacocks  on  their 
perches,  were  blown  to  shreds  in  the  mistral, 
which,  failing  to  recognize  the  frantic  chirping  of 
its  grasshoppers,  contemptuously  whisked  it  all 
away  on  the  whirling  tips  of  its  wings. 

Sitting  in  the  centre  of  the  porch,  as  if  it  were 
the  proscenium  of  his  theatre,  Cardailhac,  while 
superintending  the  rehearsals,  issued  his  commands 
to  a  multitude  of  workmen  and  gardeners,  ordered 
trees  to  be  felled  which  obstructed  the  view,  drew 
sketches  of  the  triumphal  arches,  sent  despatches 
and  messengers  to  mayors,  to  sub-prefects,  to 
Aries  to  procure  a  deputation  of  girls  of  the 
province  in  the  national  costume,  to  Barbantane, 
where  the  most  skilful  dancers  of  the  farandole 
are  to  be  found,  to  Faraman  renowned  for  its 
herds  of  wild  bulls  and  Camarguese  horses ;  and 
as  Jansoulet's  name  blazed  forth  at  the  foot  of  all 
these  despatches,  as  the  name  of  the  Bey  of  Tunis 
also  figured  in  them,  everybody  acquiesced  with  the 
utmost  eagerness,  the  telegraphic  messages  arrived 
in  an  endless  stream,  and  that  little  Sardanapalus 


254  ^^^-^  Nabob. 

from  Porte-Saint-Martin,  who  was  called  Cardail- 
hac,  was  forever  repeating :  "  There  is  something 
to  work  with ;  "  delighted  to  throw  gold  about 
like  handfuls  of  seed,  to  have  a  stage  fifty  leagues 
in  circumference  to  arrange,  all  Provence,  of  which 
country  that  fanatical  Parisian  was  a  native,  and 
thoroughly  familiar  with  its  resources  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  picturesque. 

Dispossessed  of  her  functions,  the  old  lady 
seldom  appeared,  gave  her  attention  solely  to  the 
farm  and  her  invalid,  terrified  by  that  crowd  of 
visitors,  those  insolent  servants  whom  one  could 
not  distinguish  from  their  masters,  those  women 
with  brazen,  coquettish  manners,  those  closely- 
shaven  old  villains  who  resembled  wicked  priests, 
all  those  mad  creatures  who  chased  one  another 
through  the  halls  at  night  with  much  throwing  of 
pillows,  wet  sponges,  and  curtain  tassels  which 
they  tore  off  to  use  as  projectiles.  She  no  longer 
had  her  son  in  the  evening,  for  he  was  obliged  to 
remain  with  his  guests,  whose  number  increased 
as  the  time  for  the  fetes  drew  near;  nor  had  she 
even  the  resource  of  talking  about  her  grandsons 
with  "  Monsieur  Paul,"  whom  Jansoulet,  always  the 
kindest  of  men,  being  a  little  awed  by  his  friend's 
seriousness  of  manner,  had  sent  away  to  pass  a  few 
days  with  his  brothers.  And  the  careful  house- 
keeper, to  whom  some  one  came  every  moment 
and  seized  her  keys  to  get  spare  linen  or  silver- 
ware, to  open  another  room,  thinking  of  the 
throwing  open  of  her  stores  of  treasures,  of  the 
plundering  of  her  wardrobes  and  her  sideboards, 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     255 

remembering  the  condition  in  which  the  visit  of 
the  former  bey  had  left  the  chateau,  devastated 
as  by  a  cyclone,  said  in  her  patois,  feverishly 
moistening  the  thread  of  her  distaff: 

"  May  God's  fire  devour  all  beys  and  all  future 
beys !  " 

At  last  the  day  arrived,  the  famous  day  of  which 
people  still  talk  throughout  the  whole  province. 
Oh  !  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  after 
a  sumptuous  breakfast  presided  over  by  the  old 
mother  with  a  new  Cambrai  cap  on  her  head,  — 
a  breakfast  at  which,  side  by  side  with  Parisian 
celebrities,  prefects  were  present  and  deputies,  all 
in  full  dress,  with  swords  at  their  sides,  mayors  in 
their  scarfs  of  office,  honest  cures  cleanly  shaven, 
—  when  Jansoulet,  in  black  coat  and  white  cravat, 
surrounded  by  his  guests,  went  out  upon  the  stoop 
and  saw,  framed  in  that  magnificent  landscape, 
amid  flags  and  arches  and  ensigns,  that  swarm  of 
heads,  that  sea  of  brilliant  costumes  rising  tier 
above  tier  on  the  slopes  and  thronging  the  paths ; 
here,  grouped  in  a  nosegay  on  the  lawn,  the  pret- 
tiest girls  of  Aries,  whose  little  white  faces  peeped 
sweetly  forth  from  lace  neckerchiefs;  below,  the 
farandole  from  Barbantane,  its  eight  tambourines 
in  a  line,  ready  for  the  word,  hand  in  hand,  ribbons 
fluttering  in  the  wind,  hats  over  one  ear,  the  red 
taillote  about  the  loins ;  still  lower,  in  the  succes- 
sion of  terraces,  the  choral  societies  drawn  up  in 
line,  all  black  beneath  their  bright-hued  caps,  the 
banner  bearer  in  advance,  serious  and  resolved, 
with  clenched  teeth,  holding  aloft  his  carved  staff; 


256  The  Nabob. 

lower  still,  on  an  immense  rond-point,  black  bulls 
in  shackles,  and  Camargue  gauchos  on  their  little 
horses  with  long  white  manes,  their  leggings 
above  their  knees,  brandishing  their  spears ;  and 
after  them  more  flags  and  helmets  and  bayonets, 
reaching  to  the  triumphal  arch  at  the  entrance ; 
then,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Rhone,  —  over  which  two  gangs  of  workmen 
had  just  thrown  a  bridge  of  boats,  so  that  they 
could  drive  from  the  station  to  Saint-Romans  in  a 
straight  line,  —  was  an  immense  crowd,  whole  vil- 
lages pouring  down  from  all  the  hills,  overflowing 
on  the  Giffas  road  in  a  wilderness  of  noise  and  dust, 
seated  on  the  edge  of  the  ditches,  swarming  among 
the  elms,  piled  upon  wagons,  a  formidable  living  lane 
for  the  procession  to  pass  through;  and  over  it  all 
a  huge  white  sun  whose  arrows  a  capricious  breeze 
sent  in  every  direction,  from  the  copper  of  a  tam- 
bourine to  the  point  of  a  spear  and  the  fringe  of  a 
banner,  while  the  mighty  Rhone,  high-spirited  and 
free,  bore  away  to  the  ocean  the  shifting  tableaux  of 
that  royal  fete.  In  presence  of  those  marvels,  in 
which  all  the  gold  in  his  coffers  shone  resplendent, 
the  Nabob  felt  a  thrill  of  admiration  and  pride. 

"  It  is  fine,"  he  said,  turning  pale,  and  his  mother, 
standing  behind  him,  as  pale  as  he,  but  from  inde- 
scribable terror,  murmured : 

"  It  is  too  fine  for  any  man.  One  would  think 
that  God  was  coming." 

The  feeling  of  the  devout  old  peasant  woman  was 
much  the  same  as  that  vaguely  experienced  by  all 
those  people  who  had  assembled  on  the  roads  as  if 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     257 

to  watch  the  passage  of  a  colossal  procession  on 
Corpus  Christ! ,  and  who  were  reminded  by  that 
visit  of  an  Oriental  prince  to  a  child  of  the  prov- 
ince, of  the  legends  of  the  Magian  kings,  the  arrival 
of  Gaspard  the  Moor  bringing  to  the  carpenter's 
son  the  myrrh  and  the  crown. 

Amid  the  heartfelt  congratulations  that  were 
showered  on  Jansoulet,  Cardailhac,  who  had  not 
been  seen  since  morning,  suddenly  appeared,  tri- 
umphant and  perspiring. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  there  was  something  to 
work  with!  Eh?  Isn't  this  chic?  There's  a 
grouping  for  you !  I  fancy  our  Parisians  would 
pay  something  handsome  to  attend  a  first  per- 
formance like  this." 

He  lowered  his  voice  because  the  mother  was 
close  by: 

"Have  you  seen  our  Aries  girls?  No,  look  at 
them  more  carefully  —  the  first  one,  the  one  stand- 
ing in  front  to  offer  the  bouquet." 

"  Why,  that 's  Amy  Ferat !  " 

"  Parblen  !  you  can  see  yourself,  my  dear  fellow, 
that  if  the  bey  throws  his  handkerchief  into  that 
bevy  of  pretty  girls,  there  must  be  at  least  one  who 
knows  enough  to  pick  it  up.  Those  innocent  crea- 
tures would  n't  know  what  it  meant !  Oh  !  I  have 
thought  of  everything,  you  '11  see.  It 's  all  mounted 
and  arranged  as  if  it  were  on  the  stage.  Farm  side, 
garden  side." 

At  that  point,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  perfectness 
of  his  organization,  the  manager  raised  his  cane; 
his  gesture  was  instantly  repeated  from  end  to  end 

VOL.  I.  — 17 


258  The  Nabob. 

of  the  park,  with  the  result  that  all  the  musical 
societies,  all  the  trumpets,  all  the  tambourines 
burst  forth  in  unison  in  the  majestic  strains  of  the 
familiar  song  of  the  South :  Grand  Soleil  de  la 
Provence.  The  voices,  the  brazen  notes  ascended 
into  the  light,  swelling  the  folds  of  the  banners, 
giving  the  signal  to  the  dancers  of  the  farandole, 
who  began  to  sway  back  and  forth,  to  go  through 
their  first  antics  where  they  stood,  while,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  a  murmur  ran  through  the 
crowd  like  a  breeze,  caused  doubtless  by  the  fear 
that  the  bey  had  arrived  unexpectedly  from  another 
direction.  A  second  gesture  from  the  manager  and 
the  great  orchestra  subsided,  more  gradually,  with 
rallentando  passages  and  meteoric  showers  of  notes 
scattered  among  the  foliage ;  but  nothing  better 
could  be  expected  from  a  company  of  three  thou- 
sand persons. 

Just  then  the  carriages  appeared,  the  state  car- 
riages which  had  figured  in  the  festivities  in  honor 
of  the  former  bey,  two  great  pink  and  gold  chariots 
a  la  mode  de  Tunis,  which  Mother  Jansoulet  had 
taken  care  of  as  precious  relics,  and  which  came 
forth  from  the  carriage-house  with  their  varnished 
panels,  their  hangings  and  gold  fringe  as  bright  and 
fresh  as  when  they  were  new.  There  again  Car- 
dailhac's  ingenuity  had  exerted  itself  freely,  and 
instead  of  horses,  which  were  a  little  heavy  for 
those  fragile-looking,  daintily  decorated  vehicles, 
the  white  reins  guided  eight  mules  with  ribbons, 
plumes,  and  silver  bells  upon  their  heads,  and 
caparisoned  from  head  to  foot  with  those  marvel- 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     259 

lous  sparterieSy  of  which  Provence  seems  to  have 
borrowed  the  secret  from  the  Moors  and  to  have 
perfected  the  cunning  art  of  manufacturing.  If  the 
bey  were  not  satisfied  with  that ! 

The  Nabob,  Monpavon,  the  prefect  and  one  of 
their  generals  entered  the  first  carriage,  the  others 
took  their  places  in  the  second  and  following  ones. 
The  cures  and  mayors,  all  excited  by  the  wine  they 
had  drunk,  ran  to  place  themselves  at  the  head  of 
the  singing  societies  of  their  respective  parishes, 
which  were  to  go  to  meet  the  procession ;  and  the 
whole  multitude  set  forth  on  the  Giffas  road. 

It  was  a  superbly  clear  day,  but  warm  and 
oppressive,  three  months  in  advance  of  the  season, 
as  often  happens  in  those  impetuous  regions  where 
everything  is  in  a  hurry,  where  everything  arrives 
before  its  time.  Although  there  was  not  a  cloud 
to  be  seen,  the  deathlike  stillness  of  the  atmosphere, 
the  wind  having  fallen  suddenly  as  one  lowers  a 
veil,  the  dazzling  expanse,  heated  white-hot,  a 
solemn  silence  hovering  over  the  landscape,  all 
indicated  that  a  storm  was  brewing  in  some  corner 
of  the  horizon.  The  extraordinary  torpidity  of  the 
surrounding  objects  gradually  affected  the  persons. 
Naught  could  be  heard  save  the  tinkling  bells  of 
the  mules  as  they  ambled  slowly  along,  the  meas- 
ured, heavy  tread,  through  the  burning  dust,  of  the 
bands  of  singers  whom  Cardailhac  stationed  at 
intervals  in  the  procession,  and  from  time  to  time, 
in  the  double,  swarming  line  of  human  beings  that 
bordered  the  road  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  a 
call,  the  voices  of  children,  the  cry  of  a  peddler  of 


26o  The  Nabob. 

fresh  water,  the  inevitable  accompaniment  of  all 
open-air  fetes  in  the  South. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  open  the  window  on  your 
side,  General,  it's  stifling,"  said  Monpavon,  with 
crimson  face,  fearing  for  his  paint ;  and  the  lowered 
sashes  afforded  the  worthy  populace  a  view  of 
those  exalted  functionaries  mopping  their  august 
faces,  which  were  terribly  flushed  and  wore  the 
same  agonized  expression  of  anticipation,  —  anti- 
cipation of  the  bey's  arrival,  of  the  storm,  of 
something. 

Another  triumphal  arch.  Giffas  and  its  long 
stony  street  strewn  with  green  palm  leaves,  its  old, 
dirty  houses  covered  with  flowers  and  decorations. 
Outside  of  the  village  the  station,  a  square  white 
structure,  planted  like  a  die  at  the  side  of  the 
track,  a  genuine  type  of  the  little  country  station 
lost  among  vineyards,  its  only  room  always  empty, 
except  for  an  occasional  old  woman  with  a  quantity 
of  parcels,  waiting  in  a  corner,  three  hours  too 
early  for  her  train. 

In  the  bey's  honor  the  little  building  was  decked 
with  flags  and  banners,  furnished  with  rugs  and 
divans  and  a  splendid  buffet,  on  which  was  a  light 
Itmch  and  water  ices  all  ready  for  his  Highness. 
When  he  had  arrived  and  alighted  from  his  carriage, 
the  Nabob  shook  off  the  species  of  haunting  dis- 
quiet which  had  oppressed  him  for  a  moment  past, 
without  his  knowing  why.  Prefects,  generals, 
deputies,  black  coats  and  embroidered  military 
coats  stood  on  the  broad  inner  platform,  in  impres- 
sive, solemn  groups,  with  the  pursed  lips,  the  shift- 


Tlie  Fetes  hi  Honor  of  the  Bey.     261 

ing  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  the  self-conscious 
starts  of  a  public  functionary  who  feels  that  he  is 
being  stared  at.  And  you  can  imagine  whether 
noses  were  flattened  against  window-panes  in  order 
to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  those  hierarchic  embroid- 
eries, of  Monpavon's  breastplate,  which  expanded 
and  rose  like  an  omelette  soufflee,  of  Cardailhac 
gasping  for  breath  as  he  issued  his  final  orders, 
and  of  the  beaming  face  of  Jansoulet,  their  Jan- 
soulet,  whose  eyes,  sparkling  between  the  bloated, 
sunburned  cheeks,  resembled  two  great  gilt  nails  in 
a  piece  of  Cordova  leather.  Suddenly  the  electric 
bells  began  to  ring.  The  station-agent  rushed  fran- 
tically out  to  the  track:  "The  train  is  signalled, 
messieurs.  It  will  be  here  in  eight  minutes." 
Everybody  started.  Then  a  general  instinctive 
impulse  caused  every  watch  to  be  drawn  from  its 
fob.  Only  six  minutes  more.  Thereupon,  in  the 
profound  silence,  some  one  exclaimed :  "  Look 
there  !  "  On  the  right,  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  train  was  to  come,  two  high  vine-covered  hills 
formed  a  tunnel  into  which  the  track  plunged  and 
disappeared,  as  if  swallowed  up.  At  that  moment 
the  whole  sky  in  that  direction  was  as  black  as  ink, 
obscured  by  an  enormous  cloud,  a  threatening  wall 
cutting  the  blue  as  with  a  knife,  rearing  palisades, 
lofty  cliffs  of  basalt  on  which  the  light  broke  like 
white  foam  with  the  pallid  gleam  of  moonlight.  In 
the  solemn  silence  of  the  deserted  track,  along  that 
line  of  rails  where  one  felt  that  everything,  so  far 
as  the  eye  could  see,  stood  aside  for  the  passage  of 
his    Highness,    that   aerial    cliff    was    a   terrifying 


262  The  Nabob. 

spectacle  as  it  advanced,  casting  its  shadow  before 
it  with  that  illusion  of  perspective  which  gave  to 
the  cloud  a  slow,  majestic  movement  and  to  its 
shadow  the  rapid  pace  of  a  galloping  horse. 
"  What  a  storm  we  are  going  to  have  directly !  " 
That  was  the  thought  that  came  to  them  all ;  but 
they  had  not  time  to  express  it,  for  an  ear-piercing 
whistle  was  heard  and  the  train  appeared  in  the 
depths  of  the  dark  tunnel.  A  typical  royal  train, 
short  and  travelling  fast,  decorated  with  French 
and  Tunisian  flags,  its  groaning,  puffing  locomo- 
tive, with  an  enormous  bouquet  of  roses  on  its 
breast,  representing  the  maid  of  honor  at  a  wedding 
of  Leviathans. 

It  came  rushing  on  at  full  speed,  but  slackened 
its  pace  as  it  drew  near.  The  functionaries  formed 
a  group,  drawing  themselves  up,  arranging  their 
swords,  adjusting  their  false  collars,  while  Jansou- 
let  walked  along  the  track  toward  the  train,  the 
obsequious  smile  on  his  lips  and  his  back  already 
bent  for  the  "  Salem  alek !  "  The  train  continued 
to  move,  very  slowly.  Jansoulet  thought  that  it 
had  stopped,  and  placed  his  hand  on  the  door  of 
the  royal  carriage  glittering  with  gold  under  the 
black  sky ;  but  the  headway  was  too  great,  doubt- 
less, for  the  train  still  went  forward,  the  Nabob 
walking  beside  it,  trying  to  open  that  infernal  door 
which  resisted  all  his  efforts,  and  with  the  other 
hand  making  a  sign  of  command  to  the  machine. 
But  the  machine  did  not  obey.  "  Stop,  I  tell  you  !  " 
It  did  not  stop.  Impatient  at  the  delay,  he  sprang 
upon  the  velvet-covered  step,  and  with  the  some- 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     263 

what  presumptuous  impetuosity,  which  used  to 
please  the  former  bey  so  much,  he  cried  out, 
thrusting  his  great  curly  head  in  at  the  window : 
"  Station  for  Saint-Romans,  your  Highness  !  " 
You  know  that  sort  of  vague  light  peculiar  to 
dreams,  that  colorless,  empty  atmosphere,  in  which 
everything  assumes  a  ghostly  aspect?  well,  Jansou- 
let  was  suddenly  enveloped,  made  prisoner,  para- 
lyzed by  it.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  would 
not  come ;  his  nerveless  fingers  clung  so  feebly  to 
their  support  that  he  nearly  fell  backward.  In 
heaven's  name,  what  had  he  seen?  Half  reclining 
on  a  divan  which  extended  across  one  end  of  the 
car,  his  fine  head  with  its  dead-white  complexion 
and  its  long,  silky  black  beard  resting  on  his  hand, 
the  bey,  buttoned  to  the  chin  in  his  Oriental  frock- 
coat,  without  other  ornament  than  the  broad  ribbon 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor  across  his  breast  and  the 
diamond  clasp  in  his  cap,  was  fanning  himself  im- 
passively with  a  little  fan  of  spartum,  embroidered 
with  gold.  Two  aides-de-camp  were  standing  near 
him  and  an  engineer  of  the  French  company.  Op- 
posite him,  upon  another  divan,  in  a  respectful 
attitude,  but  one  indicating  high  favor,  as  they 
alone  remained  seated  in  presence  of  the  bey, 
both  as  yellow  as  saffron,  their  long  whiskers  fall- 
ing over  their  white  cravats,  sat  two  owls,  one  fat, 
the  other  thin.  They  were  the  Hemerlingues, 
father  and  son,  who  had  reconquered  his  Highness 
and  were  carrying  him  in  triumph  to  Paris.  A 
ghastly  dream !  All  those  people,  although  they 
knew  Jansoulet  well,  stared  coolly  at  him  as  if  his 


264  The  Nabob. 

face  conveyed  no  idea  to  them.  Pitiably  pale,  with 
the  perspiration  standing  on  his  brow,  he  stam- 
mered :  "  But,  your  Highness,  do  you  not  mean  to 
leave  —  "  A  livid  flash,  like  that  of  a  sabre  stroke, 
followed  by  a  frightful  peal  of  thunder,  cut  him 
short.  But  the  flash  that  shot  from  the  monarch's 
eyes  seemed  far  more  terrible  to  him.  Rising  to 
his  feet  and  stretching  out  his  arm,  the  bey  crushed 
him  with  these  words,  prepared  in  advance  and 
uttered  slowly  in  a  rather  guttural  voice  accus- 
tomed to  the  harsh  Arabic  syllables,  but  in  very 
pure  French : 

"  You  may  return  home,  Mercanti.  The  foot 
goes  where  the  heart  leads  it,  mine  shall  never 
enter  the  door  of  the  man  who  has  robbed  my 
country." 

Jansoulet  tried  to  say  a  word.  The  bey  waved 
his  hand  :  "  Begone  !  "  And  the  engineer  having 
pressed  the  button  of  an  electric  bell,  to  which  a 
whistle  replied,  the  train,  which  had  not  come  to 
a  full  stop,  stretched  and  strained  its  iron  muscles 
and  started  ahead  under  full  steam,  waving  its 
flags  in  the  wind  of  the  storm  amid  whirling 
clouds  of  dense  smoke  and  sinister  flashes. 

He  stood  by  the  track,  dazed,  staggering, 
crushed,  watching  his  fortune  recede  and  disap- 
pear, heedless  of  the  great  drops  of  rain  that 
began  to  fall  upon  his  bare  head.  Then,  when 
the  others  rushed  toward  him,  surrounded  him 
and  overwhelmed  him  with  questions  :  "  Is  n't  the 
Bey  going  to  stop  ?  "  he  stammered  a  few  incoher- 
ent words :    "  Court   intrigues  —  infamous   machi- 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     265 

nations."  And  suddenly,  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
train  which  had  already  disappeared,  with  blood- 
shot eyes  and  the  foam  of  fierce  wrath  on  his 
lips,  he  cried  with  the  roar  of  a  wild  beast: 

"Vile  curs!" 

"  Courage,  Jansoulet,  courage." 

You  can  guess  who  said  that,  and  who,  passing 
his  arm  through  the  Nabob's,  tried  to  straighten 
him  up,  to  make  him  throw  out  his  breast  as  he 
did,  led  him  to  the  carriages  amid  the  stupefied 
silence  of  the  braided  coats,  and  helped  him  to 
enter,  crushed  and  bewildered,  as  a  relative  of  the 
deceased  is  hoisted  into  a  mourning  carriage  at  the 
close  of  the  lugubrious  ceremony.  The  rain  was 
beginning  to  fall,  the  peals  of  thunder  followed  one 
another  rapidly.  They  crowded  into  the  carriages, 
which  started  hurriedly  homeward.  Thereupon  a 
heart-rending,  yet  comical  thing  took  place,  one  of 
those  cruel  tricks  which  cowardly  destiny  plays 
upon  its  victims  when  they  are  down.  In  the  fad- 
ing light,  the  increasing  obscurity  caused  by  the 
squall,  the  crowd  that  filled  all  the  approaches  to 
the  station  believed  that  it  could  distinguish  a 
Royal  Highness  amid  such  a  profusion  of  gold 
lace,  and  as  soon  as  the  wheels  began  to  revolve, 
a  tremendous  uproar,  an  appalling  outcry  which 
had  been  brewing  in  all  those  throats  for  an  hour 
past,  arose  and  filled  the  air,  rebounded  from  hill 
to  hill  and  echoed  through  the  valley:  "Vive  le 
Bey !  "  Warned  by  that  signal,  the  first  flourishes 
rang  out,  the  singing  societies  struck  up  in  their 
turn,  and  as  the    noise   increased   from   point   to 


266  The  Nabob. 

point,  the  road  from  Giffas  to  Saint-Romans  was 
naught  but  one  long,  unbroken  wave  of  sound. 
In  vain  did  Cardailhac,  all  the  gentlemen,  Jansou- 
let  himself,  lean  out  of  the  windows  and  make  des- 
perate signs  :  "  Enough  !  enough  !  "  Their  gestures 
were  lost  in  the  confusion,  in  the  darkness ;  what 
was  seen  of  them  seemed  an  encouragement  to 
shout  louder.  And  I  give  you  my  word  that  it 
was  in  no  wise  needed.  All  those  Southerners, 
whose  enthusiasm  had  been  kept  at  fever  heat 
since  morning,  excited  still  more  by  the  tedium 
of  the  long  wait  and  by  the  storm,  gave  all  that 
they  had  of  voice,  of  breath,  of  noisy  energy, 
blending  with  the  national  hymn  of  Provence  that 
oft-repeated  cry,  which  broke  in  upon  it  like  a 
refrain :  "  Vive  le  Bey !  "  The  majority  had  no 
sort  of  idea  what  a  bey  might  be,  did  not  even 
picture  him  to  themselves,  and  gave  a  most  ex- 
traordinary pronunciation  to  the  unfamiliar  title, 
as  if  it  had  three  Us  and  ten  y's.  But  no  matter, 
they  worked  themselves  into  a  frenzy  over  it,  threw 
up  their  hands,  waved  their  hats,  and  waxed  excited 
over  their  own  antics.  Women,  deeply  affected, 
wiped  their  eyes ;  and  suddenly  the  piercing  cry 
of  a  child  came  from  the  topmost  branches  of 
an  elm :  "  Mamma,  mamma,  I  see  him  !  "  He  saw 
him  !  They  all  saw  him  for  that  matter ;  to  this  day 
they  would  all  take  their  oath  that  they  saw  him. 

Confronted  with  such  delirious  excitement,  find- 
ing it  impossible  to  impose  silence  and  tranquillity 
upon  that  mob,  there  was  but  one  course  for  the 
people  in   the  carriages  to  pursue :    to  let  them 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     267 

alone,  raise  the  windows  and  drive  at  full  speed  in 
order  to  abridge  that  unpleasant  martyrdom  as 
much  as  possible.  Then  it  was  terrible.  Seeing 
the  cortege  quicken  its  pace,  the  whole  road  began 
to  run  with  it.  The  farandoleiirs  of  Barbantane, 
hand-in-hand,  bounded  from  side  to  side,  to  the 
muffled  wheezing  of  their  tambourines,  forming  a 
human  garland  around  the  carriage  doors.  The 
singing  societies,  unable  to  sing  at  that  breathless 
pace,  but  howling  none  the  less,  dragged  their 
banner-bearers  along,  the  banners  thrown  over 
their  shoulders ;  and  the  stout,  red-faced  cures, 
panting,  pushing  their  huge  overburdened  paunches 
before  them,  still  found  strength  to  shout  in  the 
mules'  ears,  in  sympathetic,  effusive  tones :  "  Vive 
notre  bon  Bey !  "  And  with  it  all,  the  rain,  the 
rain  falling  in  bucketfuls,  in  sheets,  soiling  the 
pink  carriages,  increasing  the  confusion,  giving  to 
that  triumphal  return  the  aspect  of  a  rout,  but  a 
laughable  rout,  compounded  of  songs,  laughter, 
blasphemy,  frantic  embraces  and  infernal  oaths, 
something  like  the  return  from  a  Corpus  Christi 
procession  in  the  storm,  with  cassocks  tucked  up, 
surplices  thrown  over  the  head,  and  the  good  Lord 
hastily  housed  under  a  porch. 

A  dull  rumbling  announced  to  the  poor  Nabob, 
sitting  silent  and  motionless  in  a  corner  of  his  car- 
riage, that  they  were  crossing  the  bridge  of  boats. 
They  had  arrived. 

"  At  last !  "  he  said,  looking  out  through  the 
dripping  windows  at  the  foam-tipped  waves  of  the 
Rhone,  where  the  storm  seemed  to  him  like  repose 


i6S  The  Nabob. 

after  that  through  which  he  had  passed.  But, 
when  the  first  carriage  reached  the  triumphal  arch 
at  the  end  of  the  bridge,  bombs  were  exploded, 
the  drums  beat,  saluting  the  monarch's  arrival 
upon  his  faithful  subject's  domain,  and  the  climax 
of  irony  was  reached  when,  in  the  half  Hght,  a 
blaze  of  gas  suddenly  illuminated  the  roof  of  the 
chateau  with  letters  of  fire,  over  which  the  rain  and 
wind  caused  great  shadows  to  run  to  and  fro,  but 
which  still  displayed  very  legibly  the  legend : 
"Viv'  L'   B'v    M'H'MED." 

"  That 's  the  bouquet,"  said  the  unhappy  Nabob, 
unable  to  restrain  a  smile,  a  very  pitiful,  very 
bitter  smile.  But  no,  he  was  mistaken.  The 
bouquet  awaited  him  at  the  door  of  the  chateau ; 
and  it  was  Amy  Ferat  who  came  forward  to  pre- 
sent it  to  him,  stepping  out  of  the  group  of 
maidens  from  Aries,  who  were  sheltering  their 
watered  silk  skirts  and  figured  velvet  caps  under 
the  marquee,  awaiting  the  first  carriage.  Her 
bunch  of  flowers  in  her  hand,  modestly,  with 
downcast  eyes  and  roguish  ankle,  the  pretty 
actress  darted  to  the  door  and  stood  almost  kneel- 
ing in  an  attitude  of  salutation,  which  she  had 
been  rehearsing  for  a  week.  Instead  of  the  bey, 
Jansoulet  stepped  out,  excited,  stiffly  erect,  and 
passed  her  by  without  even  looking  at  her.  And 
as  she  stood  there,  her  nosegay  in  her  hand,  with 
the  stupid  expression  of  a  balked  fairy,  Cardailhac 
said  to  her  with  the  blague  of  a  Parisian  who 
speedily  makes  the  best  of  things: 

"  Take  away  your  flowers,  my  dear,  your  affair 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     269 

has  fallen  through.  The  Bey  isn't  coming — he 
forgot  his  handkerchief,  and  as  that 's  what  he 
uses  to  talk  to  ladies,  why,  you  understand  —  " 

Now,  it  is  night.  Everybody  is  asleep  at  Saint- 
Romans  after  the  tremendous  hurly-burly  of  the 
day.  The  rain  is  still  falling  in  torrents,  the  ban- 
ners feebly  wave  their  drenched  carcasses,  one  can 
hear  the  water  rushing  down  the  stone  steps,  trans- 
formed into  cascades.  Everything  is  streaming 
and  dripping.  A  sound  of  water,  a  deafening 
sound  of  water.  Alone  in  his  magnificently  fur- 
nished chamber  with  its  seignorial  bed  and  its 
curtains  of  Chinese  silk  with  purple  stripes,  the 
Nabob  is  still  stirring,  striding  back  and  forth, 
revolving  bitter  thoughts.  His  mind  is  no  longer 
intent  upon  the  affront  to  himself,  the  public 
affront  in  the  presence  of  thirty  thousand  persons, 
nor  upon  the  murderous  insult  that  the  Bey 
addressed  to  him  in  presence  of  his  mortal  ene- 
mies. No,  that  Southerner  with  his  wholly  phys- 
ical sensations,  swift  as  the  action  of  new  weapons, 
has  already  cast  away  all  the  venom  of  his  spleen. 
Moreover  court  favorites  are  always  prepared,  by 
many  celebrated  precedents,  for  such  overwhelm- 
ing falls  from  grace.  What  terrifies  him  is  what 
he  can  see  behind  that  insult.  He  reflects  that  all 
his  property  is  over  yonder,  houses,  counting- 
rooms,  vessels,  at  the  mercy  of  the  bey,  in  that 
lawless  Orient,  the  land  of  arbitrary  power.  And, 
pressing  his  burning  brow  against  the  streaming 
glass,  with  the  perspiration  standing  on  his  back, 


270  The  Nabob. 

and  hands  cold  as  ice,  he  stares  vacantly  out  into 
the  night,  no  darker,  no  more  impenetrable  than 
his  own  destiny. 

Suddenly  he  hears  footsteps,  hurried  footsteps, 
at  his  door. 

"Who's  there?" 

"  Monsieur,"  says  Noel,  entering  the  room  half- 
dressed,  "  a  very  urgent  despatch  sent  from  the 
telegraph  office  by  special  messenger." 

"  A  despatch  !  — What  is  the  next  thing?  " 

He  takes  the  blue  paper  and  opens  it  with 
trembling  hand.  The  god,  having  already  been 
wounded  twice,  is  beginning  to  feel  that  he  is 
vulnerable,  to  lose  his  assurance ;  he  experiences 
the  apprehensions,  the  nervous  tremors  of  other 
men.  The  signature  first.  Mora !  Is  it  pos- 
sible ?  The  duke,  the  duke  telegraph  to  him ! 
Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  about  it.     M-o-r-a. 

And  above : 

Popolasca  is  dead.  Election  in  Corsica  soon. 
You  are  official  candidate. 

A  deputy !  That  means  salvation.  With  that 
he  has  nothing  to  fear.  A  representative  of  the 
great  French  nation  is  not  to  be  treated  like  a 
simple  mercanti.     Down  with  the  Hemerlingues  ! 

"  O  my  duke,  my  noble  duke  !  " 

He  was  so  excited  that  he  could  not  sign  the 
receipt. 

"  Where  's  the  man  who  brought  this  despatch?  " 
he  asked  abruptly. 

"  Here,  Monsieur  Jansoulet,"  replied  a  hearty 
voice  from  the  hall,  in  the  familiar  Southern  dialect. 


The  Fetes  in  Honor  of  the  Bey.     271 

He  was  a  lucky  dog,  that  messenger. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  Nabob. 

And,  after  handing  him  his  receipt,  he  plunged 
his  hands  into  his  pockets,  which  were  always  full, 
grasped  as  many  gold  pieces  as  he  could  hold  and 
threw  them  into  the  poor  devil's  cap  as  he  stood 
there  stammering,  bewildered,  dazzled  by  the  for- 
tune that  had  befallen  him  in  the  darkness  of  that 
enchanted  palace. 


i']2  The  Nabob. 


XII. 

A    CORSICAN    ELECTION.. 

"  PozzoNEGRO,  near  Sartene. 
"  I  AM  able  at  last  to  write  you  of  my  movements,  my 
dear  Monsieur  Joyeuse.  In  the  five  days  that  we  have 
been  in  Corsica  we  have  travelled  about  so  much, 
talked  so  much,  changed  carriages  and  steeds  so  often, 
riding  sometimes  on  mules,  sometimes  on  asses,  and 
sometimes  even  on  men's  backs  to  cross  streams,  have 
written  so  many  letters,  made  notes  on  so  many  petitions, 
given  away  so  many  chasubles  and  altar-cloths,  propped 
up  so  many  tottering  church  steeples,  founded  so  many 
asylums,  proposed  and  drunk  so  many  toasts,  absorbed 
so  much  talk  and  Talano  wine  and  white  cheese,  that  I 
have  found  no  time  to  send  an  affectionate  word  to  the 
little  family  circle  around  the  big  table,  from  which  I 
have  been  missing  for  two  weeks.  Luckily  my  absence 
will  not  last  much  longer,  for  we  expect  to  leave  day 
after  to-morrow  and  travel  straight  through  to  Paris.  So 
far  as  the  election  is  concerned,  I  fancy  that  our  trip  has 
been  successful.  Corsica  is  a  wonderful  country,  indo- 
lent and  poor,  a  mixture  of  poverty  and  of  pride  which 
makes  both  the  noble  and  bourgeois  families  keep  up  a 
certain  appearance  of  opulence  even  at  the  price  of  the 
most  painful  privations.     They  talk  here  in  all  serious- 


A   Corsica7i  Electio7i.  273 

ness  of  the  great  wealth  of  Popolasca,  the  indigent 
deputy  whom  death  robbed  of  the  hundred  thousand 
francs  his  resignation  in  the  Nabob's  favor  would  have 
brought  him.  All  these  people  have,  moreover,  a  frenzied 
longing  for  offices,  an  administrative  mania,  a  craving 
to  wear  a  uniform  of  some  sort  and  a  flat  cap  on  which 
they  can  write  :  "  Government  clerk."  If  you  should 
give  a  Corsican  peasant  his  choice  between  the  richest 
farm  in  Beauce  and  the  baldric  of  the  humblest  forest- 
warden,  he  would  not  hesitate  a  moment,  he  would 
choose  the  baldric.  Under  such  circumstances  you  can 
judge  whether  a  candidate  with  a  large  fortune  and  gov- 
ernmental favors  at  his  disposal  has  a  good  chance  of 
being  elected.  Elected  M.  Jansoulet  will  be,  therefore, 
especially  if  he  succeeds  in  the  move  which  he  is  making 
at  this  moment  and  which  has  brought  us  to  the  only  inn 
of  a  small  village  called  Pozzonegro  (Black  Well),  a  gen- 
uine well,  all  black  with  verdure,  fifty  cottages  built  of 
red  stone  clustered  around  a  church  of  the  Italian  type, 
in  the  bottom  of  a  ravine  surrounded  by  steep  hills,  by 
cliffs  of  bright-colored  sandstone,  scaled  by  vast  forests 
of  larches  and  junipers.  Through  my  open  window,  at 
which  I  am  writing,  I  can  see  a  bit  of  blue  sky  overhead, 
the  orifice  of  the  black  well ;  below,  on  the  little  square, 
shaded  by  an  enormous  walnut  tree,  as  if  the  shadows 
were  not  dense  enough  already,  two  shepherds  dressed 
in  skins  are  playing  cards  on  the  stone  curb  of  a  fountain. 
Gambling  is  the  disease  of  this  country  of  sloth,  where 
the  crops  are  harvested  by  men  from  Lucca.  The  two 
poor  devils  before  me  could  not  find  a  sou  in  their 
pockets  ;  one  stakes  his  knife,  the  other  a  cheese  wrapped 
in  vine  leaves,  the  two  stakes  being  placed  beside  them 
on  the  stone.     A  little  cur6  is  watching  them,  smoking 

VOL.  I. — 18 


2  74  ^/^^  Nabob. 

his  cigar,  and  apparently  taking  the  liveliest  interest  in 
their  game. 

"  And  that  is  all  —  not  a  sound  anywhere  except  the 
regular  dropping  of  the  water  on  the  stone,  the  exclama- 
tions of  one  of  the  gamblers,  who  swears  by  the  sango  del 
setninario  ;  and  in  the  common-room  of  the  inn,  under 
my  chamber,  our  friend's  earnest  voice,  mingled  with  the 
buzzing  of  the  illustrious  Paganetti,  who  acts  as  inter- 
preter in  his  conversation  with  the  no  less  illustrious 
Piedigriggio. 

"  M.  Piedigriggio  (Grayfoot)  is  a  local  celebrity.  He 
is  a  tall  old  man  of  seventy-five,  still  very  erect  in  his 
short  cloak  over  which  his  long  white  beard  falls,  his 
brown  woollen  Catalan  cap  on  his  hair,  which  is  also 
white,  a  pair  of  scissors  in  his  belt,  which  he  uses  to  cut 
the  great  leaves  of  green  tobacco  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand ;  a  venerable  old  fellow  in  fact,  and  when  he 
crossed  the  square  and  shook  hands  with  the  cur6,  with 
a  patronizing  smile  at  the  two  gamblers,  I  never  would 
have  believed  that  I  had  before  me  the  famous  brigand 
Piedigriggio,  who,  from  184c  to  i^6o,  held  the  thickets 
in  Monte-Rotondo,  tired  out  gendarmes  and  troops  of 
the  line,  and  who  to-day,  his  seven  or  eight  murders  with 
the  rifle  or  the  knife  being  outlawed  by  lapse  of  time, 
goes  his  way  in  peace  throughout  the  region  that  saw  his 
crimes,  and  is  a  man  of  considerable  importance.  This 
is  the  explanation  :  Piedigriggio  has  two  sons,  who,  fol- 
lowing nobly  in  his  footsteps,  have  toyed  with  the  rifle 
and  now  hold  the  thickets  in  their  turn.  Impossible  to 
lay  hands  upon  or  to  find,  as  their  father  was  for  twenty 
years,  informed  by  the  shepherds  of  the  movements  of 
the  gendarmerie,  as  soon  as  the  gendarmes  leave  a 
village,  the  brigands  appear  there.     The  older  of  the 


A  Corsican  Election.  275 

two,  Scipion,  came  last  Sunday  to  Pozzonegro  to  hear 
mass.  To  say  that  people  are  fond  of  them,  and  that 
the  grasp  of  the  bloodstained  hand  of  these  villains  is 
agreeable  to  all  those  who  receive  it,  would  be  to  calum- 
niate the  pacific  inhabitants  of  this  commune ;  but  they 
fear  them,  and  their  will  is  law. 

"  Now  it  appears  that  the  Piedigriggios  have  taken  it 
into  their  heads  to  espouse  the  cause  of  our  rival  in  the 
election,  a  formidable  alliance,  which  may  cause  two 
whole  cantons  to  vote  against  us,  for  the  knaves  have 
legs  as  long,  in  proportion,  as  the  range  of  their  guns. 
Naturally  we  have  the  gendarmes  with  us,  but  the 
brigands  are  much  more  powerful.  As  our  host  said  to 
us  this  morning :  *  The  gendarmes,  they  go,  but  the 
banditti,  they  stay.'  In  the  face  of  that  very  logical 
reasoning,  we  realized  that  there  was  but  one  thing  to 
do,  to  treat  with  the  Piedigriggios,  and  make  a  bargain 
.with  them.  The  mayor  said  a  word  to  the  old  man,  who 
consulted  his  sons,  and  they  are  discussing  the  terms  of 
the  treaty  downstairs.  I  can  hear  the  Governor's  voice 
from  here  :  '  Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow,  I  'm  an  old  Cor- 
sican myself,  you  know.'  And  then  the  other's  tranquil 
reply,  cut  simultaneously  with  his  tobacco  by  the  grating 
noise  of  the  great  scissors.  The  '  dear  fellow '  does  not 
seem  to  have  faith  ;  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  matters 
will  not  progress  until  the  gold  pieces  ring  on  the  table. 

"The  trouble  is  that  Paganetti  is  well  known  in  his 
native  country.  The  value  of  his  word  is  written  on  the 
public  square  at  Corte  which  still  awaits  the  monument 
to  Paoli,  in  the  vast  crop  of  humbuggery  that  he  has 
succeeded  in  planting  in  this  sterile  Ithacan  island,  and 
in  the  flabby,  empty  pocket-books  of  all  the  wretched 
village  cur^s,   petty  bourgeois,  petty  noblemen,  whose 


276  The  Nabob. 

slender  savings  he  has  filched  by  dangling  chimerical 
combinazioni  before  their  eyes.  Upon  my  word,  he 
needed  all  his  phenomenal  assurance,  together  with  the 
financial  resources  he  now  has  at  his  command  to  satisfy 
all  demands,  to  venture  to  show  his  face  here  again. 

"  After  all,  how  much  truth  is  there  in  these  fabulous 
works  undertaken  by  the  Caisse  Territoriale  ? 

"  None  at  all. 

"  Mines  which  do  not  yield,  which  will  never  yield,  as 
they  exist  only  on  paper ;  quarries  which  as  yet  know 
not  pickaxe  or  powder ;  untilled,  sandy  moors,  which 
they  survey  with  a  gesture,  saying,  '  We  begin  here,  and 
we  go  way  over  yonder,  to  the  devil.'  It 's  the  same 
with  the  forests,  —  one  whole  densely  wooded  slope  of 
Monte-Rotondo,  which  belongs  to  us,  it  seems,  but 
which  it  is  not  practicable  to  cut  unless  aeronauts  should 
do  duty  as  woodcutters.  So  as  to  the  mineral  baths,  of 
which  this  wretched  hamlet  of  Pozzonegro  is  one  of  the 
most  important,  with  its  fountain,  whose  amazing  ferru- 
ginous properties  Paganetti  is  constantly  vaunting.  Of 
packet-boats,  not  a  trace.  Yes,  there  is  an  old,  half- 
ruined  Genoese  tower,  on  the  shore  of  the  Bay  of 
Ajaccio,  with  this  inscription  on  a  tarnished  panel  over 
its  hermetically  closed  door  :  '  Paganetti  Agency,  Mari- 
time Company,  Bureau  of  Information.'  The  bureau  is 
kept  by  fat  gray  lizards  in  company  with  a  screech-owl. 
As  for  the  railroads,  I  noticed  that  all  the  excellent 
Corsicans  to  whom  I  mentioned  them,  replied  with 
cunning  smiles,  disconnected  phrases,  full  of  mystery  ; 
and  not  until  this  morning  did  I  obtain  the  exceedingly 
farcical  explanation  of  all  this  reticence. 

"  I  had  read  among  the  documents  which  the  Gov- 
ernor waves  before  our  eyes  from  time  to  time,  like  a 


A   Cor  sic  an  Election.  277 

fan  to  inflate  his  blague,  a  deed  of  a  marble  quarry  at  a 
place  called  Taverna,  two  hours  from  Pozzonegro. 
Availing  myself  of  our  visit  to  this  place,  I  jumped  on  a 
mule  this  morning,  without  a  word  to  any  one,  and, 
guided  by  a  tall  rascal,  with  the  legs  of  a  deer,  —  a 
perfect  specimen  of  the  Corsican  poacher  or  smuggler, 
with  his  great  red  pipe  between  his  teeth,  —  I  betook 
myself  to  Taverna.  After  a  horrible  journey  among 
cliffs  intersected  by  crevasses,  bogs,  and  abysses  of  im- 
measurable depth,  where  my  mule  maliciously  amused 
himself  by  walking  close  to  the  edge,  as  if  he  were 
measuring  it  with  his  shoes,  we  descended  an  almost 
perpendicular  surface  to  our  destination,  —  a  vast  desert 
of  rocks,  absolutely  bare,  all  white  with  the  droppings  of 
gulls  and  mews ;  for  the  sea  is  just  below,  very  near, 
and  the  silence  of  the  place  was  broken  only  by  the 
beating  of  the  waves  and  the  shrill  cries  of  flocks  of 
birds  flying  in  circles.  My  guide,  who  has  a  holy  horror 
of  customs  officers  and  gendarmes,  remained  at  the  top 
of  the  cliff,  because  of  a  small  custom-house  station  on 
the  shore,  while  I  bent  my  steps  toward  a  tall  red 
building  which  reared  its  three  stories  aloft  in  that 
blazing  solitude,  the  windows  broken,  the  roof-tiles  in 
confusion,  and  over  the  rotting  door  an  immense  sign  : 
'  Caisse  Terrifotiak.  Carr  —  bre  —  54.'  The  wind 
and  sun  and  rain  have  destroyed  the  rest. 

"  Certainly  there  has  been  at  some  time  an  attempt 
made  to  work  the  mine,  for  there  is  a  large,  square, 
yawning  hole,  with  cleanly-cut  edges  and  patches  of  red 
streaked  with  brown,  like  leprous  spots,  along  its  sterile 
walls ;  and  among  the  nettles  at  the  bottom  enormous 
blocks  of  marble  of  the  variety  known  in  commerce  as 
grioite,  condemned  blocks  of  which  no  use  can  be  made 


278  '  The  Nabob. 

for  lack  of  a  proper  road  leading  to  the  quarry,  or  a 
harbor  which  would  enable  boats  to  approach  the  hill ; 
and,  more  than  all  else,  for  lack  of  sufficient  funds  to 
supply  either  of  those  needs.  So  the  quarry,  although 
within  a  few  cible-lengths  of  the  shore,  is  abandoned, 
useless,  and  a  nuisance,  like  Robinson  Crusoe's  boat, 
with  the  same  drawbacks  as  to  availability.  These  de- 
tails of  the  distressing  history  of  our  only  territorial 
possession  were  furnished  me  by  an  unhappy  survivor, 
shivering  with  fever,  whom  I  found  in  the  basement  of 
the  yellow  house  trying  to  cook  a  piece  of  kid  over  the 
acrid  smoke  of  a  fire  of  mastic  branches. 

"That  man,  who  comprises  the  whole  staff  of  the 
Caisse  Territoriale  in  Corsica,  is  Paganetti's  foster- 
father,  an  ex-lighthouse-keeper  who  does  not  mind 
loneliness.  The  Governor  lea^-es  him  there  partly  from 
charity,  and  also  because  an  occasional  letter  from  the 
Taverna  quarry  produces  a  good  effect  at  meetings  of 
shareholders.  I  had  great  difficulty  in  extorting  any 
information  from  that  three-fourths  wild  man,  who 
gazed  at  me  suspiciously,  in  ambush  behind  his  goat-skin 
pelone ;  he  did  tell  me,  however,  unintentionally,  what 
the  Corsicans  understand  by  the  term  railroad,  and  why 
they  assume  this  mysterious  manner  when  they  mention 
it.  While  I  was  trying  to  find  out  whether  he  knew 
anything  of  the  scheme  for  an  iron  road  in  the  island, 
the  old  fellow  did  not  put  on  the  cunning  smile  I  had 
observ^ed  in  his  compatriots,  but  said  to  me  quite  natu- 
rally, in  very  good  French,  but  in  a  voice  as  rusty  and 
stiff  as  an  old  lock  that  is  seldom  used  : 

"  '  Oh  !  moussiou,  no  need  of  railroads  here  — ' 
" '  But  they  are  very  valuable,  very  useful  to  make 
communication  easier.' 


A   Cor  sic  an  Election.  279 

" '  I  don't  say  that  ain't  true  ;  but  with  the  gendarmes 
we  don't  need  anything  more.' 

"  *  The  gendarmes  ?  ' 

'' '  To  be  sure.' 

"  The  misunderstanding  lasted  fully  five  minutes, 
before  I  finally  comprehended  that  the  secret  police  are 
known  here  as  the  '  railroads.'  As  there  are  many  Cor- 
sican  poHce  officials  on  the  Continent,  they  make  use 
of  an  honest  euphemism  to  describe  their  degrading 
occupation  in  their  family  circle.  You  ask  the  kinsmen 
of  one  of  them,  'Where's  your  brother  Ambrosini?' 
*  What  is  your  Uncle  Barbicaglia  doing  ? '  They  will 
answer,  with  a  little  wink :  '  He  has  a  place  on  the 
railroad ; '  and  everybody  knows  what  that  means. 
Among  the  lower  classes,  the  peasants,  who  have  never 
seen  a  railroad  and  have  no  idea  what  it  is,  there  is  a 
perfectly  serious  belief  that  the  great  department  of  the 
secret  imperial  police  has  no  other  name  than  that. 
Our  principal  agent  in  the  island  shares  that  touching 
innocence  ;  this  will  give  you  an  idea  of  the  condition 
of  the  Line  from  Ajaccio  to  Bastia  via  Bonifacio,  Porto 
Vecchio,  etc.,  which  figures  on  the  great  books  with  green 
backs  in  the  Paganetti  establishment.  In  a  word,  all 
the  assets  of  the  territorial  bank  are  comprised  in  a  few 
desks  and  two  old  hovels  —  the  whole  hardly  worthy  of 
a  place  in  the  rubbish-yard  on  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand, 
where  I  hear  the  weathercocks  creaking  and  the  old 
doors  slamming  every  night  as  I  fall  asleep. 

"  But  in  that  case  what  has  been  done,  what  is  being 
done  with  the  enormous  sums  that  M.  Jansoulet  has 
poured  into  the  treasury  in  the  last  five  months,  to  say 
nothing  of  what  has  come  from  other  sources  attracted 
by  that  magic  name  ?     I  fully  agreed  with  you  that  all 


28o  The  Nabob. 

these  soundings  and  borings  and  purchases  of  land, 
which  appear  on  the  books  in  a  fine  round  hand,  were 
immeasurably  exaggerated.  But  how  could  any  one 
suspect  such  infernal  impudence?  That  is  why  M.  le 
Gouverneur  was  so  disgusted  at  the  idea  of  taking  me  on 
this  electoral  trip.  I  have  not  thought  it  best  to  have 
an  explanation  on  the  spot.  My  poor  Nabob  has  enough 
on  his  mind  with  his  election.  But,  as  soon  as  we  have 
returned,  I  shall  place  all  the  details  of  my  long  investi- 
gation before  his  eyes ;  and  I  will  extricate  him  from 
this  den  of  thieves  by  persuasion  or  by  force.  They 
have  finished  their  negotiations  downstairs.  Old  Piedi- 
griggio  is  crossing  the  square,  playing  with  his  long 
peasant's  purse,  which  looks  to  me  to  be  well-filled. 
The  bargain  is  concluded,  I  suppose.  A  hasty  adieu, 
my  dear  Monsieur  Joyeuse  ;  remember  me  to  the  young 
ladies,  and  bid  them  keep  a  tiny  place  for  me  at  the 
work-table.  "Paul  de  G:6ry." 

The  electoral  cyclone  in  which  they  had  been 
enveloped  in  Corsica  crossed  the  sea  in  their  wake 
like  the  blast  of  a  sirocco,  followed  them  to  Paris 
and  blew  madly  through  the  apartments  on  Place 
Vendome,  which  were  thronged  from  morning  till 
night  by  the  usual  crowd,  increased  by  the  con- 
stant arrival  of  little  men  as  dark  as  carob-beans, 
with  regular,  bearded  faces,  some  noisy,  buzzing 
and  chattering,  others  silent,  self-contained  and 
dogmatic,  the  two  types  of  the  race  in  which  the 
same  climate  produces  diiTerent  results.  All  those 
famished  islanders  made  appointments,  in  the  wilds 
of  their  uncivilized  fatherland,  to  meet  one  an- 
other at  the  Nabob's  table,  and  his  house  had  be- 


A   Corsican  Electio7t.  281 

come  a  tavern,  a  restaurant,  a  market-place.  In 
the  dining-room,  where  the  table  was  always  set, 
there  was  always  some  Corsican,  newly  arrived,  in 
the  act  of  taking  a  bite,  with  the  bewildered  and 
greedy  expression  of  a  relation  from  the  country. 

The  noisy,  blatant  breed  of  election  agents  is 
the  same  everywhere ;  but  these  men  were  dis- 
tinguished by  something  more  of  ardor,  a  more 
impassioned  zeal,  a  turkey-cock  vanity  heated 
white-hot.  The  most  insignificant  clerk,  inspector, 
mayor's  secretary,  or  village  schoolmaster  talked 
as  if  he  had  a  whole  canton  behind  him  and  the 
pockets  of  his  threadbare  coat  stuffed  full  of  bal- 
lots. And  it  is  a  fact,  which  Jansoulet  had  had 
abundant  opportunity  to  verify,  that  in  the  Cor- 
sican villages  the  families  are  so  ancient,  of  such 
humble  origin,  with  so  many  ramifications,  that  a 
poor  devil  who  breaks  stones  on  the  high  road  finds 
some  way  to  work  out  his  relationship  to  the 
greatest  personages  on  the  island,  and  in  that  way 
wields  a  serious  influence.  As  the  national  tem- 
perament, proud,  cunning,  intriguing,  revengeful, 
intensifies  these  complications,  the  result  is  that 
great  care  must  be  taken  as  to  where  one  puts  his 
foot  among  the  snares  that  are  spread  from  one 
end  of  the  island  to  the  other. 

The  most  dangerous  part  of  it  was  that  all  those 
people  were  jealous  of  one  another,  detested  one 
another,  quarrelled  openly  at  the  table  on  the 
subject  of  the  election,  exchanging  black  glances, 
grasping  the  hilts  of  their  knives  at  the  slightest 
dispute,  talking  very  loud  and  all  together,  some 


282  The  Nabob. 

in  the  harsh,  resonant  Genoese  patois,  others  in 
the  most  comical  French,  choking  with  restrained 
insults,  throwing  at  one  another's  heads  the  names 
of  unknown  villages,  dates  of  local  history  which 
suddenly  placed  two  centuries  of  family  feuds 
upon  the  table  between  two  covers.  The  Nabob 
was  afraid  that  his  breakfasts  would  end  tragically, 
and  tried  to  calm  all  those  violent  natures  with  his 
kindly,  conciliatory  smile.  But  Paganetti  reassured 
him.  According  to  him,  the  vendetta,  although 
still  kept  alive  in  Corsica,  very  rarely  employs  the 
stiletto  and  the  firearm  in  these  days.  The  anony- 
mous letter  has  taken  their  place.  Indeed,  un- 
signed letters  were  received  every  day  at  Place 
Vendome,  after  the  style  of  this  one :  — 

"  You  are  so  generous,  Monsieur  Jansoulet,  that  I  can 
do  no  less  than  point  out  to  you  Sieur  BornaUnco  (Ange- 
Marie)  as  a  traitor  who  has  gone  over  to  your  enemies ; 
I  have  a  very  different  story  to  tell  of  his  cousin  Borna- 
linco  (Louis-Thomas),  who  is  devoted  to  the  good 
cause,"  etc. 

Or  else : 

"  Monsieur  Jansoulet,  I  fear  that  your  election  will  be 
badly  managed  and  will  come  to  nothing  if  you  continue 
to  employ  Castirla  (Josu(§)  of  the  canton  of  Odessa, 
while  his  kinsman,  Luciani,  is  the  very  man  you  need." 

Although  he  finally  gave  up  reading  such  mis- 
sives, the  poor  candidate  was  shaken  by  all  those 
doubts,  by  all  those  passions,  being  caught  in  a 
network  of  petty  intrigues,  his  mind  full  of  terror 


A   Corsican  Election.  283 

and  distrust,  anxious,  excited,  nervous,  feeling 
keenly  the  truth  of  the  Corsican  proverb : 

"  If  you  are  very  ill-disposed  to  your  enemy, 
pray  that  he  may  have  an  election  in  his  family." 

We  can  imagine  that  the  check-book  and  the 
three  great  drawers  in  the  mahogany  commode 
were  not  spared  by  that  cloud  of  devouring  locusts 
that  swooped  down  upon  "  Moussiou  Jansoulet's  " 
salons.  Nothing  could  be  more  comical  than  the 
overbearing  way  in  which  those  worthy  islanders 
negotiated  their  loans,  abruptly  and  with  an  air  of 
defiance.  And  yet  they  were  not  the  most  ter- 
rible, except  in  the  matter  of  boxes  of  cigars, 
which  vanished  in  their  pockets  so  rapidly  as  to 
make  one  think  they  proposed  to  open  a  Civclte 
on  their  return  to  the  island.  But  just  as  wounds 
grow  red  and  inflamed  on  very  hot  days,  so  the 
election  had  caused  an  amazing  recrudescence  in 
the  systematic  pillage  that  reigned  in  the  house. 
The  expenses  of  advertising  were  considerable : 
Moessard's  articles,  sent  to  Corsica  in  packages  of 
twenty  thousand,  thirty  thousand  copies,  with 
portraits,  biographies,  pamphlets,  all  the  printed 
clamor  that  it  is  possible  to  raise  around  a  name. 
And  then  there  was  no  diminution  in  the  ordinary 
consumption  of  the  panting  pumps  established 
around  the  reservoir  of  millions.  On  one  side  the 
Work  of  Bethlehem,  a  powerful  machine,  pumping 
at  regular  intervals,  with  tremendous  energy ; 
the  Caisse  Territoriale,  with  marvellous  power 
of  suction,  indefatigable  in  its  operation,  with 
triple  and  quadruple  action,  of  several  thousand 


2  84  The  Nabob. 

horse-power ;  and  the  Schwalbach  pump,  and  the 
Bois-l'H^ry  pump,  and  how  many  more ;  some  of 
enormous  size,  making  a  great  noise,  with  auda- 
cious pistons,  others  more  quiet  and  reserved,  with 
tiny  valves,  bearings  skilfully  oiled  —  toy-pumps 
as  delicately  constructed  as  the  probosces  of  in- 
sects whose  thirst  causes  stings,  and  which  deposit 
poison  on  the  spot  from  which  they  suck  their 
hfe ;  but  all  working  with  the  same  unanimity, 
and  fatally  certain  to  cause,  if  not  an  absolute 
drought,  at  all  events  a  serious  lowering  of  the 
level. 

Already  unfavorable  reports,  vague  as  yet,  were 
in  circulation  on  the  Bourse.  Was  it  a  manoeuvre 
of  the  enemy,  of  that  Hemerlingue  against  whom 
Jansoulet  was  waging  ruthless  financial  war,  trying 
to  defeat  all  his  operations,  and  losing  very  con- 
siderable sums  at  the  game,  because  he  had  against 
him  his  own  excitable  nature,  his  adversary's  cool- 
headedness  and  the  bungling  of  Paganetti,  whom 
he  used  as  a  man  of  straw?  In  any  event,  the  star 
of  gold  had  turned  pale.  Paul  de  Gery  learned  as 
much  from  Pere  Joyeuse,  who  had  entered  the 
employ  of  a  broker  as  book-keeper,  and  was 
thoroughly  posted  on  matters  connected  with  the 
Bourse ;  but  what  alarmed  him  more  than  all  else 
was  the  Nabob's  strange  agitation,  the  craving  for 
excitement  which  had  succeeded  the  admirable 
calmness  of  conscious  strength,  of  serenity,  the 
disappearance  of  his  Southern  sobriety,  the  way 
in  which  he  stimulated  himself  before  eating  by 
great  draughts  of  raki,  talking  loud  and  laughing 


A  Corsican  Election.  285 

uproariously  like  a  common  sailor  during  his 
watch  on  deck.  One  felt  that  the  man  was  tiring 
himself  out  to  escape  some  absorbing  thought, 
which  was  visible  nevertheless  in  the  sudden  con- 
traction of  all  the  muscles  of  his  face  when  it 
passed  through  his  mind,  or  when  he  was  fever- 
ishly turning  over  the  pages  of  his  tarnished  little 
memorandum-book.  The  serious  interview,  the 
decisive  explanation  that  Paul  was  so  desirous 
to  have  with  him,  Jansoulet  would  not  have  at 
any  price.  He  passed  his  evenings  at  the  club, 
his  mornings  in  bed,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  awake 
had  his  bedroom  full  of  people,  who  talked  to  him 
while  he  was  dressing,  and  to  whom  he  replied 
with  his  face  in  his  wash-bowl.  If,  by  any  miracle, 
de  Gery  caught  him  for  a  second,  he  would  run 
away  or  cut  him  short  with  a :  "  Not  now,  I  beg 
you."  At  last  the  young  man  resorted  to  heroic 
measures. 

One  morning  about  five  o'clock,  Jansoulet,  on 
returning  from  his  club,  found  on  the  table  beside 
his  bed  a  little  note  which  he  took  at  first  for  one 
of  the  anonymous  denunciations  which  he  received 
every  day.  It  was  a  denunciation,  in  very  truth, 
but  signed,  written  with  the  utmost  frankness, 
breathing  the  loyalty  and  youthful  seriousness  of 
the  man  who  wrote  it.  De  Gery  set  before  him 
very  clearly  all  the  infamous  schemes,  all  the 
speculations  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  He 
called  the  rascals  by  their  names,  without  circum- 
locution. There  was  not  one  among  the  ordinary 
habitues  of  the  house  who  was  not  a  suspicious 


286  The  Nabob. 

character,  not  one  who  came  there  for  any  other 
purpose  than  to  steal  or  He.  From  attic  to  cellar, 
pillage  and  waste.  Bois-l'Hery's  horses  were  un- 
sound, the  Schwalbach  gallery  a  fraud,  Moessard's 
articles  notorious  blackmail.  De  Gery  had  drawn 
up  a  long  detailed  list  of  those  impudent  frauds, 
with  proofs  in  support  of  his  allegations ;  but  he 
commended  especially  to  Jansoulet's  attention  the 
matter  of  the  Caisse  Territoriale,  as  the  really 
dangerous  element  in  his  situation.  In  the  other 
matters  money  alone  was  at  risk ;  in  this,  honor 
was  involved.  Attracted  by  the  Nabob's  name, 
by  his  title  of  president  of  the  council,  hundreds 
of  stockholders  had  walked  into  that  infamous 
trap,  seeking  gold  in  the  footsteps  of  that  lucky 
miner.  That  fact  imposed  a  terrible  responsibility 
upon  him  which  he  would  understand  by  reading 
the  memorandum  relating  to  the  concern,  which 
was  falsehood  and  fraud,  pure  and  simple,  from 
beginning  to  end. 

"  You  will  find  the  memorandum  to  which  I 
refer,"  said  Paul  de  Gery  in  conclusion,  "  in  the  first 
drawer  in  my  desk.  Various  receipts  are  affixed 
to  it.  I  have  not  put  it  in  your  room,  because  I 
am  distrustful  of  Noel  as  of  all  the  rest.  To-night, 
when  I  go  away,  I  will  hand  you  the  key.  For  I 
am  going  away,  my  dear  friend  and  benefactor, 
I  am  going  away,  overflowing  with  gratitude  for 
the  benefits  you  have  conferred  on  me,  and  in 
despair  because  your  blind  confidence  has  pre- 
vented me  from  repaying  them  in  part.  My  con- 
science as  a  man   of  honor  would   reproach    me 


A   Corsican  Electimt,  287 

were  I  to  remain  longer  useless  at  my  post.  I 
am  looking  on  at  a  terrible  disaster,  the  pillage  of 
a  Summer  Palace,  which  I  am  powerless  to  check; 
but  my  heart  rises  in  revolt  at  all  that  I  see.  I 
exchange  grasps  of  the  hand  which  dishonor  me. 
I  am  your  friend,  and  I  seem  to  be  their  confeder- 
ate. And  who  knows  whether,  by  living  on  in 
such  an  atmosphere,  I  might  not  become  so?" 

This  letter,  which  he  read  slowly,  thoroughly, 
even  to  the  spaces  between  the  words  and  the 
lines,  made  such  a  keen  impression  on  the  Nabob 
that,  instead  of  going  to  bed,  he  went  at  once  to 
his  young  secretary,  Paul  occupied  a  study  at 
the  end  of  the  suite  of  salons,  where  he  slept  on 
a  couch,  a  provisional  arrangement  which  he  had 
never  cared  to  change.  The  whole  house  was  still 
asleep.  As  he  walked  through  the  long  line  of 
great  salons,  which  were  not  used  for  evening 
receptions,  so  that  the  curtains  were  always  open 
and  at  that  moment  admitted  the  uncertain  light 
of  a  Parisian  dawn,  the  Nabob  paused,  impressed 
by  the  melancholy  aspect  that  his  magnificent 
surroundings  presented.  In  the  heavy  odor  of 
tobacco  and  various  liquors  that  filled  the  rooms, 
the  furniture,  the  wainscotings,  the  decorations 
seemed  faded  yet  still  new.  Stains  on  the 
crumpled  satin,  ashes  soiling  the  beautiful  mar- 
bles, marks  of  boots  on  the  carpet  reminded  him 
of  a  huge  first-class  railway  carriage,  bearing  the 
marks  of  the  indolence,  impatience  and  ennui  of 
a  long  journey,  with  the  destructive  contempt  of 
the    public    for   a   luxury  for  which   it  has  paid. 


288  The  Nabob. 

Amid  that  stage  scenery,  all  in  position  and  still 
warm  from  the  ghastly  comedy  that  was  played 
there  every  day,  his  own  image,  reflected  in  twenty 
cold,  pale  mirrors,  rose  before  him,  at  once  omin- 
ous and  comical,  ill-at-ease  in  his  fashionable 
clothes,  with  bloated  cheeks  and  face  inflamed 
and  dirty. 

What  an  inevitable  and  disenchanting  morrow 
to  the  insane  life  he  was  leading ! 

He  lost  himself  for  a  moment  in  gloomy 
thoughts ;  then,  with  the  vigorous  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  which  was  so  familiar  in  him,  that  pack- 
man's gesture  with  which  he  threw  ofl"  any  too 
painful  preoccupation,  he  resumed  the  burden 
which  every  man  carries  with  him,  and  which 
causes  the  back  to  bend  more  or  less,  according 
to  his  courage  or  his  strength,  and  entered  de 
Gery's  room,  where  he  found  him  already  dressed 
and  standing  in  front  of  his  open  desk,  arranging 
papers. 

"  First  of  all,  my  boy,"  said  Jansoulet,  closing 
the  door  softly  on  their  interview,  "  answer  me 
this  question  frankly.  Are  the  motives  set  forth 
in  your  letter  your  real  motives  for  resolving  to 
leave  me?  Isn't  there  underneath  it  all  one  of 
these  infamous  stories  that  I  know  are  being 
circulated  against  me  in  Paris?  I  am  sure  you 
would  be  frank  enough  to  tell  me,  and  to  give  me 
a  chance  to  —  to  set  myself  right  in  your  eyes." 

Paul  assured  him  that  he  had  no  other  reasons 
for  going,  but  that  those  he  had  mentioned  were 
surely  sufficient,  as  it  was  a  matter  of  conscience. 


A   Cor  sic  an  Election.  289 

"  Listen  to  me  then,  my  child,  and  I  am.  sure 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  you.  Your  letter, 
eloquent  as  it  was  with  honesty  and  sincerity,  told 
me  nothing  new,  nothing  that  I  had  not  been  con- 
vinced of  for  three  months.  Yes,  my  dear  Paul, 
you  were  right;  Paris  is  more  complicated  than  I 
thought.  What  I  lacked  when  I  arrived  here  was 
an  honest,  disinterested  cicerone  to  put  me  on  my 
guard  against  persons  and  things.  I  found  none 
but  people  who  wanted  to  make  money  out  of  me. 
All  the  degraded  scoundrels  in  the  city  have  left 
the  mud  from  their  boots  on  my  carpets.  I  was 
looking  at  those  poor  salons  of  mine  just  now. 
They  need  a  good  thorough  sweeping;  and  I 
promise  you  that  they  shall  have  it,  jour  de  Dien  ! 
and  from  no  light  hand.  But  I  am  waiting  until  I 
am  a  deputy.  All  these  rascals  are  of  service  to 
me  in  my  election ;  and  the  election  is  too  neces- 
sary to  me  for  me  to  throw  away  the  slightest 
chance.  This  is  the  situation  in  two  words.  Not 
only  does  the  bey  not  intend  to  repay  the  money 
I  loaned  him  a  month  ago ;  he  has  met  my  claim 
with  a  counter-claim  for  twenty-four  millions,  the 
figure  at  which  he  estimates  the  sums  I  obtained 
from  his  brother.  That  is  infernal  robbery,  an 
impudent  slander.  My  fortune  is  my  own,  hon- 
estly my  own.  I  made  it  in  my  dealings  as  a 
contractor.  I  enjoyed  Ahmed's  favor ;  he  him- 
self furnished  me  with  opportunities  for  making 
money.  It  is  very  possible  that  I  have  screwed 
the  vise  a  little  hard  sometimes.  But  the  matter 
must  not  be  judged  with  the  eyes  of  a  European. 

VOL.  I.  —  19 


290  The  Nabob. 

The  enormous  profits  that  the  Levantines  make  are 
a  well-known  and  recognized  thing  over  yonder ; 
they  are  the  ransom  of  the  savages  whom  we  intro- 
duce to  western  comforts.  This  wretched  Hemer- 
lingue,  who  is  suggesting  all  this  persecution  of 
me  to  the  bey,  has  done  very  much  worse  things. 
But  what 's  the  use  of  arguing?  I  am  in  the  wolf's 
jaws.  Pending  my  appearance  to  justify  myself 
before  his  courts  —  I  know  all  about  justice  in  the 
Orient — the  bey  has  begun  by  putting  an  embargo 
on  all  my  property,  ships,  palaces  and  their  con- 
tents. The  aff"air  has  been  carried  on  quite  regu- 
larly, in  pursuance  of  a  decree  of  the  Supreme 
Council.  I  can  feel  the  claw  of  Hemerlingue 
Junior  under  it  all.  If  I  am  chosen  deputy,  it  is 
all  a  jest.  The  Council  revokes  its  decree  and  my 
treasures  are  returned  with  all  sorts  of  excuses. 
If  I  am  not  elected,  I  lose  everything,  sixty,  eighty 
millions,  even  the  possible  opportunity  of  making 
another  fortune ;  it  means  ruin,  disgrace,  the  bot- 
tomless pit.  And  now,  my  son,  do  you  propose 
to  abandon  me  at  such  a  crisis?  Remember  that 
I  have  nobody  in  the  world  but  you.  My  wife? 
you  have  seen  her,  you  know  how  much  support, 
how  much  good  advice  she  gives  her  husband. 
My  children?  It's  as  if  I  had  none,  I  never  see 
them,  they  would  hardly  know  me  in  the  street. 
My  ghastly  magnificence  has  made  an  empty  void 
around  me,  so  far  as  affections  are  concerned,  has 
replaced  them  by  shameless  selfish  interests.  I 
have  no  one  to  love  but  my  mother,  who  is  far 
away,  and  you,  who  come  to  me  from  my  mother. 


A   Cor  dean  Election.  291 

No,  you  shall  not  leave  me  alone  among  all  the 
slanders  that  are  crawling  around  me.  It  is  hor- 
rible —  if  you  only  knew !  At  the  club,  at  the 
theatre,  wherever  I  go,  I  see  Baroness  Hemer- 
lingue's  little  snake's  head,  I  hear  the  echo  of  her 
hissing,  I  feel  the  venom  of  her  hatred.  Every- 
where I  am  conscious  of  mocking  glances,  conver- 
sations broken  off  when  I  appear,  smiles  that  lie;, 
or  kindness  in  which  there  is  a  mingling  of  pity. 
And  then  the  defections,  the  people .  who  move 
away  as  if  a  catastrophe  were  coming.  For  in- 
stance, here  is  Felicia  Ruys,  with  my  bust  just 
finished,  alleging  some  accident  or  other  as  an 
excuse  for  not  sending  it  to  the  Salon.  I  said 
nothing,  I  pretended  to  believe  it.  But  I  under- 
stood that  there  was  some  infamy  on  foot  in  that 
quarter,  too,  —  and  it's  a  great  disappointment  to' 
me.  In  emergencies  as  grave  as  that  I  am  passing 
through,  everything  has  its  importance.  My  bust 
at  the  Exhibition,  signed  by  that  famous  name, 
would  have  been  of  great  benefit  to  me  in  Paris. 
But  no,  everything  is  breaking,  everything  is 
failing  me.  Surely  you  see  that  you  must  not 
fail  me." 


END   OF  VOL.  I. 


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